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THE    ATHEN/^UM    PRESS    SERIES 

G.  L.  KITTREDGE   and   C.  T.  WINCHESTER 

GENERAL    EDITORS 


Htbcn^um  press  Series, 


This  series  is  intended  to  furnish  a 


library    of    the    best    English    Hterature 


from  Chaucer  to  the  present  time  in  a 


form  adapted  to  the  needs  of  both  the 


student    and   the   general    reader.     The 


works  selected  are  carefully  edited,  with 


biographical  and  critical   introductions, 


full  explanatory  notes,  and  other  neces- 


sary apparatus. 


W.    S.    LANDOR. 


Htbenarum    press    Series 


SELECTIONS 


FROM   THE   WRITINGS   OF 


WALTER   SAVAGE    LANDOR 


Edited  with  Introduction  and  Notes 


BY 


W.  B.  SHUBRICK    CLYMER 


J • 


1  ■*    -       • 


•  .  >• 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. 
GINN    &    COMPANY,    PUBLISHERS 

Cfte  3[tl)rn3ctim  greets 
T898 


119866 


Copyright,  iSgS,  by 
W.  K.  SHUBRICK   CLVMER 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


»    •    •       •     • 


•    ■»     ." 


•  •  •   •  •  • 


> "    •'    • 


PREFACE. 


The  first  edition  of  John  Forster's  Li/e  of  Landor  was 
published  by  Chapman  and  Hall,  in  two  volumes,  in  1869; 
in  1876,  abridged,  it  formed  the  first  volume  of  Forster's 
eight-volume  edition  of  77/6'  Works  and  Life  of  IValier  Sa7>- 
(i,i^t'  Landor ;  in  1S95  the  second  edition  was  reprinted.  In 
this  biography  is  stored  almost  all  the  information  of  any 
consequence  relating  to  Landor;  and  Forster's  is  the  stand- 
ard text  of  the  collected  writings.  The  ample  material  in 
the  biography  is  not  especially  well  put  together,  nor  is  the 
appraisal  always  closely  accurate.  To  a  special  student  of 
the  subject,  however,  the  book  is  invaluable.  Mr.  Sidney 
Colvin's  Landor  {English  Men  of  Letters')  gives  as  full  an 
account  as  any  one  but  a  special  student  cares  for.  In  his 
volume  of  Selections  {Golden  Treasury  Series)  he  attains,  by 
rare  skill  in  choice  and  arrangement,  and  by  means  of  a  really 
luminous  preface  and  notes,  that  high  point  of  critical  merit 
which  entitles  him  to  the  commendation  bestowed  by  Landor 
on  one  who  praises  an  author  "  becomingly."  Mr.  Charles 
G.  Crump's  comparatively  recent  Tariont/n  edition  of  the 
writings,  with  instructive  critical  notes,  is  based  on  Forster. 
In  1897  appeared  Letters  and  Other  Unpublished  Writings 
of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  edited  by  Mr.  Stephen  Wheeler. 
The  new  material  is  not  particularly  important ;  but  the  edi- 
tor's work  is  done  with  such  good  taste  and  judgment  that 
the  book  cannot  fail  to  interest  an  admirer  of  Landor.  It 
has  a  well-made  bibliography.     The  Scott  L/ibrary  contains. 


VI  PREFACE. 

in  convenient  form,  a  good  assortment  of  Imaginary  Conver- 
sations, the  Pentameron,  and  Pericles  and  Aspasia.  The  fullest 
American  reprint  of  the  prose  is  that  published  by  Roberts 
Brothers. 

Mr.  Swinburne's  article  on  Landor  in  the  Encyclopcedia 
Britannica,  so  strangely  stimulating  a  blend  of  dithyramb 
and  discernment  as  no  other  mortal  could  ever  have  pro- 
duced, is  to  be  read  with  mental  reservations  and  qualifica- 
tions. His  Song  for  the  Centenary  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 
is  an  encomium,  in  detail,  of  pretty  much  everything  Landor 
wrote.  In  sharp  contrast  to  Mr.  Swinburne's  apotheosis  is 
Mr.  Leslie  Stephen's  searching,  and  in  some  degree  destruc- 
tive, analysis  (^Hours  in  a  Library^.  Irritating  though  the 
sarcastically  depreciatory  manner  of  the  essay  may  be  to 
youthful  enthusiasm,  yet  the  estimate  is  in  the  main  so 
sound  that  mature  and  dispassionate  reflection  overlooks 
the  lack  of  sympathy.  It  is  by  odds  the  cleverest  thing  in 
print  on  Landor.  The  article  in  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  also  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen,  states  the  facts  con- 
cisely, and  concludes  with  an  admirably  just  summing  up  of 
Landor  as  man  and  writer. 

Among  occasional  contributions  to  the  subject  are  Mrs. 
Browning's  (then  Miss  Barrett)  essay  in  Home's  New  Spirit 
of  the  Age  (1844);  Miss  Kate  Field's  three  articles  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  (1866)  ;  Mrs.  Linton's  article  in  Fraser's 
Magazine  (July,  1870);  Lord  Hougliton's  tJ/^w^^v^?///  (1873); 
Mr.  Horace  K.  Scudder's  characterisation  (^Men  and  Letters'):, 
Professor  Dowden's  essay  (^Studies  in  Literature)  ;  Professor 
Ci.  E.  Woodberry's  (^Studies  in  LMters  and  LJfe)  ;  Mr.  Aubrey 
de  Vere's  (Essays,  chiefly  on  L'oetry) ;  M.  Gabriel  Sarra- 
zin's  (Poetes  modernes  de  V Angleterre);  and  two  articles  by 
J.  R.  Lowell  {Massachusetts  Quarterly,  1848;  Century  Maga- 
zine, i888j.  Mr.  E.  W.  Evans's  academic  Study  of  Landor 
is   systematic    and   thorough.     Landor   is   treated  at   some 


PREFACE.  vu 

length  in  Mrs.  Oliphant's  Victorian  Age  of  English  Litera- 
ture and  in  Mr.  Stedman's  Victorian  Poets  ;  and  a  few  pages 
are  given  to  him  in  Professor  Saintsbury's  book  on  the 
English  literature  of  this  century. 

This  small  volume  of  selections,  differing  in  plan  both 
from  Mr.  Hillard's  and  from  Mr.  Colvin's,  contains  some 
of  the  dramatic  and  some  of  the  discursive  Conversations,  a 
considerable  part  of  the  last  Day  of  the  Fentameron,  a  small 
number  of  letters  from  Pericles  and  Aspasia,  and  a  few  of 
the  best  short  poems.  It  has  been  diiificult  to  find  among 
the  dramatic  Conversations  good  ones  not  already  included 
by  Mr.  Colvin  ;  among  the  non-dramatic  it  has  been  easy, 
for  he  usually  makes  but  short  extracts  from  them.  Only 
one  of  these  last  is  here  given  entire  ;  from  others  are  made 
excerpts  long  enough  to  serve  as  samples  of  the  trend  and 
manner  of  the  discussion.  'I'he  letters  taken  from  Pericles 
and  Aspasia,  as  well  as  the  poems  which  follow  them,  though 
totally  inadequate  to  give  an  idea  of  the  full  value  of  the 
classes  of  work  they  represent,  are,  at  all  events,  character- 
istic. The  order  in  which  the  selections  are  placed  is 
determined  by  considerations  of  congruity  and  contrast,  not 
chronology. 

The  slight  biographical  outline  follows  Mr.  Colvin,  my 
indebtedness  to  whom  at  every  turn  in  the  preparation  of 
this  book  is  obvious.  The  omission  to  mention  in  it  Lan- 
dor's  idiosyncrasies  of  spelling  is  because  they  are  matter 
rather  of  curiosity  than  of  serious  literary  interest.  They 
are  discussed  in  full,  along  with  various  linguistic  matters, 
in  Conversations  between  Johnson  and  Home  Tooke  and 
between  Landor  and  Archdeacon  Hare. 

The  notes,  furnishing  little  of  the  information  supplied 
by  dictionaries  of  biography  and  mythology,  not  minutely 
analysing,  touching  only  incidentally  on  technical  details  of 
style,  chiefly  strive,  by  cursory  suggestion  of  matters  more 


VIH  PREFACE. 

or  less  pertinent,  to  invite  the  reader  to  meet  in  a  friendly 
spirit  this  somewhat  uncompromising  writer,  whose  acquaint- 
ance is  so  well  worth  making. 

I  take  pleasure  in  thanking  several  friends  for  valuable 
aid,  and  the  editor  of  Sa-ibncr's  Magazine  for  his  courtesy 
in  consenting  to  the  repetition,  in  the  Introduction,  of  a  few 
paragraphs  from  a  previous  article  of  my  own. 

W.  B.  S.  C. 
May,  1898. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Introduction xiii 

Dates xxxix 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

I.  Achilles  and  IIklkna        ......  3 

II.  ^SOP   AND    RlIODOI'E 9 

III.  Tiberius  and  Vii'sania 19 

IV.  Metellus  and  Marius 23 

V.  Marckllus  and  Hannibal 28 

•^    VI.  Henkv  VIII.  and  Anne  Hoi.evn    ....  33 

VII.  Roger  Asciiam  and  I-ady  Jane  Grey      ...  41 

VIII.  Princess  Mary  and  Princess  Elizabeth     .         .  44 

IX.  Essex  and  Si'enser 54 

X.  Leofric  and  Godiva 59 

XI.  The  Lady  1>isle  .\nd  Elizabeth  (Jaunt          .         .  65 

XIT.  The  Empress  Catharine  and  Princess  Dasukde  .  69 

XIII.  John  of  Gaunt  and  Joanna  of  Kent     ...  77 

XIV.  Tancredi  and  Constantly      .....  82 
XV.  The  Maid  ok  Orleans  and  Acnes  Sorkl        .         .  87 

XVI.  Bossuet  and   ruE  Duchess  de  Eontances  .         .  96 

XVII.  Dantk  and   I;e.\tkice  ...... 

XVIII.  liENUnvsKI    AND    Al'HANASIA        ..... 


104 
03 


XIX.     Leonora  di  Este  and  Father   Panicarola  .118 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XX.     Admiral  Blake  and  Humphrey  Blake       .         .  120 

XXI.       RUADAMISTUS    AND    ZeNOBIA  ....  1 24 

XXII.     Ei'KURUs,  Leontion,  and  Ternissa      .         .         .  129 

XXIII.     Wai.hjn,  Cotton,  and  Oldways       .         .         .  138 

XXI\'.     Wii.iiAM    I'ENN  and  Lord  Peterborough   .         .  155 

XX  \'.     Ei'icTETUs  and  Seneca 167 

XXVI.     LucuLLus  and  C^sar 172 

XXVII.     The  Apologue  of  Critobulus  ....  180 

THE   PENTAMERON. 

XXVIII.     Fii-th   Day's  Interview 183 

PERICLES   AND  ASPASIA. 

XXIX.     Selected  Letters 200 

POEMS. 
Hellenics. 

XXX.     The  Hamadryad 215 

XXXI.     Acon  and  RHoDOPfe ;  OR,  Inconstancy  .  224 

XXXII.     The  Death  of  Artemidora 228 

Miscellaneous. 

XXXIII.  The  Wrestling  Match  (from  Gehir) .  .  229 

XXXIV.  To  Iantiik 

1.  "It  often  comes  into  mv  head".        .  232 

2.  "Ianthe!  you  are  call'd  "  .        .        .  232 

3.  "\(;rr  pleasures  spring"       .  .  233 

4.  "Well  I   remember"    ....  233 
XXXV.     Rose  Aylmer 233 

XXXVI.     A   FiESOLAN   Idyi 234 

XXX  VI  I.     Upon  a  Sweet-Briar 236 


CONTENTS.  XI 


I'AliE 


XXXVIII.  TiiK  Maid's  Lament 237 

XXXIX.  To  Robert  BKtnvNiNt; 238 

XL.  To  THE  Sister  of  Elia 238 

XLI.  On  Dirce 239 

XLII.  "  I    WILL    NOT    love  !  " 239 

Old  Age  and  Ueatu. 

XLIII.  "How    MANY    voices" 239 

XLIV.  "The  place  where  .soon"        ....  240 

XLV.  To  Age 240 

XLVI.  On  his  .Seventy-fifth  Birthday     .        .  241 

XLVII.  On   his  Eightieth  Birthday        ....  241 

XLVIII.  "Death  stands  above  me"      .        .        .        .  241 

Notes 243 


INTRODUCTION. 


Walter  Savac.e  Landor  was  born  at  Warwick,  on  Jan- 
uary 30,  1775.  His  father,  Dr.  Landor,  a  practising  physi- 
cian at  Warwick,  reputed  to  have  been  a  "polished,  sociable, 
agreeable,  somewhat  choleric  gentleman,  more  accomplished 
and  better  educated,  as  his  profession  required,  than  most 
of  those  with  whom  he  associated,  but  otherwise  dining, 
coursing,  telling  his  story  and  drinking  his  bottle  without 
particular  distinction  among  the  rest,"  had  married  two 
heiresses.  Of  the  seven  children  by  the  second  wife,  Eliza- 
beth Savage,  a  member  of  a  Warwickshire  family,  Walter  was 
the  eldest.  By  entail  he  became  heir,  at  birth,  to  two 
estates  belonging  to  his  mother's  family — Ipsley  Court  and 
Tachbrook  in  Warwickshire  ;  to  a  share  in  the  reversionary 
interest  in  a  third  —  Hughenden  Manor  in  Buckingham- 
shire;^ and  to  the  family  property  of  his  father  in  Stafford- 
shire. "No  one,  it  should  seem,"  says  his  latest  biographer.l 
"ever  entered  life  under  happier  conditions.  To  the  giftsl^ 
of  breeding  and  of  fortune  there  were  added  at  his  birth  thei 

I 

gifts  of  genius  and  of  strength.  But  there  had  been  evil| 
god-mothers  beside  the  cradle  as  well  as  good,  and  in  the 
composition  of  this  powerful   nature  pride,  anger,  and  pre- 

1  Subsequently  the  country  seat  of  another  man  of  literary  fame, 
Benjamin  Disraeli,  who  in  1S48  purchased  the  place,  and  on  the  refusal 
by  his  executors  of  the  offer  of  a  public  funeral  and  Westminster 
Abbey  was,  in  accordance  with  his  express  directions,  buried  there 
beside  Lady  Beaconsfield  in  iSSi. 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

cipitancy  had  been  too  largely  mixed,  to  the  prejudice  of  a 
noble  intellect  and  tender  heart,  and  to  the  disturbance  of 
all  his  relations  with  his  fellow-men." 

Landor  went,  at  ten,  to  Rugby,  and,  during  the  six  years 
he  stayed  there,  was  equally  reckless  in  riding  and  in  defi- 
ance of  authority ;  regardless  of  bounds ;  proficient  in  his 
studies — "all  except  arithmetic";  deep  in  Latin  and  Eng- 
lish literature,  and  skilful  in  turning  verses  in  Latin  and 
English  ;  fond  of  reading  at  night,  and  of  wandering  by  day 
beside  streams.  Illustrative  of  his  readiness  in  Latin  —  of 
which  he  once  said,  in  extreme  old  age,  "  I  am  sometimes 
at  a  loss  for  an  English  word,  never  for  a  Latin  " — is  a  story 
told  by  Charles  Reade's  father,  who  was  at  Rugby  at  the 
same  time.  Dr.  James,  the  master,  found  him  eating  an 
apple  in  school,  and  told  him  to  bring  it  to  his  desk.  As 
Landor  was  turning  to  go  back  to  his  seat,  the  doctor  said, 
"  Now,  if  you  want  that  again,  you  had  better  make  me  a 
short  line  on  the  occasion  ''  ;  whereupon,  after  thinking  a 
moment,  Landor  replied  : 

Esuriens  doctor  dulcia  poma  rapit. 

"What  do  you  mean  hy  esiiriois  doctor?'^  &z\6.  the  master, 
"The  gormandizing  doctor."  "Take  it,  sir,"  said  the 
doctor,  delighted  with  his  pupil.  Another  story  is  that 
once,  when  there  were  seven  boys  at  Rugby  named  Hill, 
he  got  a  half-holiday  for  the  school  by  writing  a  copy  of 
verses  in  which  he  compared  Rugby  to  Rome  because  it 
was  built  on  seven  hills.  "  I  don't  ask  you  who  wrote  this," 
said  the  doctor,  "  for  there  is  only  one  of  you  with  the  brains 
to  do  it."  But  Landor  and  the  master  were  not  always  on 
amicable  terms,  and  one  day  they  differed  over  a  Latin  quan- 
tity. Landor  is  said  to  have  been  right  about  the  quantity, 
but  he  conducted  himself  in  so  insubordinate  a  way  that  his 
removal  was  requested. 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

After  two  years  with  a  tutor,  he  went,  in  1793,  to  Trinity 
College,  Oxford.  Southey  was  then  at  Balliol.  Though  they 
did  not  know  each  other,  they  both  made  themselves  con- 
spicuous by  avowing  their  republican  sentiments  in  such 
practices  as  appearing  in  public  with  their  hair  unpowdered, 
and  Landor  by  still  more  extreme  insults  to  orthodox  Eng- 
lish opinion.  "His  Jacobinism,"  says  Southey,  "would  have 
made  me  seek  his  acquaintance,  but  for  his  madness."  An 
absurd  freak  led  to  his  rustication.  He  quarreled  with  his 
father,  whose  politics  were  the  reverse  of  his  own,  and,  find- 
ing it  impossible  to  live  at  home,  established  himself,  in  1794, 
in  lodgings  in  London.  Here  he  published,  in  1795,  a  small 
volume  of  poems,  of  which  one  was  an  ode  To  Washington. 

Next  he  went  to  South  Wales,  where,  he  says,  he  lived 
"chiefly  among  woods,"  and  appears  to  have  been  in  the 
best  spirits,  though  "  not  exchanging  twelve  sentences  with 
men."  With  women,  however,  he  may  be  supposed  to  have 
exchanged  more,  for  he  wrote  poetry  about  two — lone,  whose 
prose  name  was  Jones,  and  lanthe,  which  means  Jane.  The 
latter  was  an  Irish  lady,  Sophia  Jane  Swift,  who  afterwards 
became  Countess  de  Molande,  and  always  remained  Landor's 
friend.^     Gebir,  in  English  and  in  Latin,  suggested  by  a  so- 

1  Mr.  Colvin  gives  the  following  summary  of  the  subsequent  life  of 
lanthe : 

"  To  this  lady  Landor's  somewhat  roving  affections  during  his  life 
at  Bath  (about  1800-1806)  were  principally  devoted,  and  he  held  her 
in  great  honour  and  affection  ever  after.  Her  first  husband,  a  collateral 
descendant  of  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  died  in  18 12,  and  she  soon 
afterwards  married  M.  de  Molande,  a  French  Emigre  of  high  family. 
After  the  Restoration,  Madame  de  Molande,  who  had  children  by  both 
marriages,  went  to  live  with  her  second  husband  in  Paris.  Being  left 
once  more  a  widow,  she  spent  two  years  (1829-31)  with  her  children 
in  Florence,  and  passed  the  remainder  of  her  life  between  England 
and  France,  dying  in  Paris  [Versailles]  in  1851." 

In  Mr.  Wheeler's  recently  published  book  are  further  details  about 
her  and  her  daughters,  as  well  as  about  lone. 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

called  Arabian  story  of  Clara  Reeve's,  was  the  poetic  fruit 
of  Lander's  out-of-door  life  in  Wales.  Ignored  by  the  many, 
it  has  been  admired  by  a  few  for  a  century.  Southey  found 
in  it  "miraculous  beauties."  The  first  edition  of  the  English 
version  appeared  in  1798,  the  year  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
and  of  Lamb's  Rosamicnd  Gray.  The  date  marks  not 
inaccurately  a  point  in  the  ideal  divisional  line  between 
eighteenth-century  and  nineteenth-century  English  literature. 
The  blank  verse  of  Gcbir  is  one  sign  of  the  growing  reaction 
from  the  correct  couplets  of  the  preceding  age.  The  ques- 
tion which  has  been  suggested  whether  The  Ancient  Mariner, 
Tinteni  Abbey,  or  Gebir  was  "  really  the  weightiest  portent 
of  the  new  day  "  seems,  however,  too  remotely  eccentric  for 
special  consideration  here. 

After  contributing  political  articles  to  the  Courier  for  a 
while,  Landor  made  a  visit  to  Paris,  where  he  conceived  a 
hatred  of  all  things  French.  "  As  to  the  cause  of  liberty,"  he 
writes  in  1802,  "this  cursed  nation  has  ruined  it  forever." 
He  includes  the  language  in  his  dislike,  though  he  was  fond 
of  a  number  of  French  writers.  Ronsard,  he  says,  "  would 
have  been  a  great  poet  if  he  had  not  been  a  Frenchman." 

In  1805,  on  the  death  of  his  father,  he  succeeded,  at  thirty, 
to  the  family  estates.  He  was  in  need  of  money,  for,  what 
with  wandering  from  place  to  place,  everywhere  buying  such 
expensive  things  as  horses  and  pictures,  and  living  generally 
on  a  scale  which  the  limited  sale  of  his  unpopular  writings 
could  far  from  maintain,  he  had  for  some  time  been  spend- 
ing more  than  his  allowance. 

His  life  at  Bath  during  the  next  few  years  was  as  near  to 
dissipation  as  Landor's  ever  came.  Though  careless  in 
dress  and  awkward  in  dancing,  he  was,  as  was  natural,  a 
favourite  in  society.  He  continued  to  buy  horses  and  pic- 
tures, and  to  keep  up  an  establishment  beyond  even  his  ample 
means.     Personally  of  abstemious  habits,  he  was  yet  sociable 


INTRODUCTION.  xvil 

and  impressionable.  As  the  owner  of  large  landed  proper- 
ties, he  was  a  conspicuous  figure  in  so  small  a  place.  Of  his 
doings  at  Bath  several  stories  are  told  on  which  it  is  need- 
less  to  dwell.  His  friends  were  anxious  that  he  should 
marry  ;  and  in  his  letters  and  his  verses  there  are  indica- 
tions of  dissatisfaction  with  the  sort  of  life  he  had  adopted, 
of  a  craving  for  something  more  congenial  to  his  refined 
tastes  than  he  found  in  the  rather  empty  days  and  nights 
of  a  rich  but  aimless  young  man  of  fashion. 

"This  conventional  existence"  —  to  quote  from  Lord 
Houghton  —  "was  interrupted  by  a  resolve  to  join  the 
British  army  in  Spain  in  1808."  He  actually  equipped  and 
commanded  a  thousand  volunteers  in  the  uprising  against 
Napoleon's  attempt  to  convert  Spain  and  Portugal  into 
dependencies  of  France.  For  this  service,  which  lasted 
some  three  months,  the  honorary  rank  of  colonel  in  the 
Spanish  army  was  conferred  on  him  —  a  title  which  he 
afterward  relinquished.  Mis  experience  in  Spain  gave  the 
impulse  for  Count  Ju/iai/,  his  principal  drama  in  verse,  of 
which  De  Quincey,  by  a  strange  vagary,  ranked  the  charac- 
ter of  the  hero  with  Milton's  Satan  and  with  the  Prometheus 
of  ^schylus. 

Not  less  characteristic  than  his  espousal  of  the  Spanish 
cause  was  his  scheme  of  restoring  the  border  priory  of 
Llanthony,  in  Wales,  and  there  establishing  himself  as  the 
benefactor  and  reformer  of  the  nei<rhbourhood.  He  sold 
one  of  his  estates  to  buy  the  property,  instituted  gigantic 
operations  to  make  it  accessible  and  habitable,  went  to  live 
there  with  his  wife  (a  young  beauty  whom  he  fell  in  love 
with  at  first  sight  at  a  ball  at  Bath  and  married  out-of-hand 
in  the  course  of  a  few  months),  got  into  trouble  with  every 
one  he  had  dealings  with,  and  finally  was  forced  to  turn 
about  and  leave  England,  after  having  wasted  seventy 
thousand  pounds  in  the  fruitless  enterprise. 


xvm  INTRODUCTION. 

"  It  is  small  reproach  to  any  woman,"  says  Lord  Houghton, 
"that  she  did  not  possess  a  sufficient  union  of  charm,  tact, 
and  intelligence  to  suit  Landor  as  a  wife.  He  demanded 
beauty  in  woman  just  as  imperatively  as  honesty  in  man, 
yet  was  hardly  submissive  to  its  influence."  Mrs.  Landor, 
on  the  other  hand,  had,  as  another  critic  puts  it,  "  none  of  the 
gifts  of  the  domestic  artist ;  she  was  not  of  those  fine  spirits 
who  study  to  create,  out  of  the  circumstances  and  characters 
with  which  they  have  to  deal,  the  best  attainable  ideal  of 
a  home ;  but  a  commonplace  provincial  beauty  enough, 
although  lively  and  agreeable  in  her  way."  She  and  the 
lion  were  ill  mated.  He  married  her  for  her  wonderful 
golden  hair,  and  because  she  was  penniless  and  without 
accomplishments.  Her  reasons  for  marrying  him  were 
probably  no  better.  At  any  rate,  he  was  not  the  man  to 
bear  being  twitted  by  her  with  their  difference  in  age  of 
sixteen  j^ears.  Accordingly,  one  night,  unable  to  stay  with 
her  any  longer,  he  walked  across  the  island  of  Jersey,  where 
they  were  living,  and  embarked  for  France.' 

1  It  was  a  year  after  Landor's  luckless  marriage  that  the  first  hus- 
band of  lanthe  died.  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton,  whose  article  {Fr(ise7-''s  Mat^a- 
zitic,  July,  1S70)  on  Landor's  latter  years  is  of  jjeculiar  interest, 
represents  liim  as  sighing  that  he  had  not  waited  tliat  year  before 
marrj'ing.  What,  one  wonders,  would  have  been  his  fate  if  he  had 
waited?  lie  certainly  would  not  have  married  as  he  did.  But  would 
he  have  married  lanthe  ?  It  is  not  unlikely  that  he  would,  for,  Mrs. 
Linton  goes  on  to  say,  "  of  all  his  four  great  loves,  lanthe  was  the  one 
to  which  his  memory  turned  most  constantly  and  most  fondly.  After 
he  had  told  me  the  whole  story,  she,  then  an  old  woman,  came  to  liath 
with  her  grandchildren  ;  and  we  u.sed  to  go  regularly  every  day  to  pay 
her  a  visit.  She  was  sweet  and  gentle,  evidently  very  proud  of  her  old 
lover's  affection,  very  fond  of  him,  and  somewhat  afraid.  And  his 
behaviour  to  her  was  perfect.  He  was  at  his  best  when  with  her. 
Tender,  re.spectful,  playful,  with  his  old-world  courtesy  which  sat  so 
well  on  him,  it  was  easy  to  understand  why  she  had  loved  him  so 
passionately  in  the  fresh  far-away  past,  and  why  she  loved  him  still  in 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

The  incidents  of  the  next  few  years  may  be  mentioned  very 
briefly.  Landor  went  to  Tours,  where,  a  few  months  later, 
his  wife  rejoined  him.  Here  began,  in  1814,  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Francis  Hare,^  who  became  and  remained  his 
fast  friend.  From  Tours  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Landor  went  to 
Como,  where  their  first  boy  was  born.  Here,  as  always, 
he  kept  up  a  constant  correspondence  with  Southey,  and 
sent  him  many  valuable  books  which,  once  read,  had  served 
their  purpose.  He  was  continually  buying  and  giving  away 
good  books  and,  in  his  later  years,  bad  pictures.  He  had  a 
visit  from  Southey,  who  was  much  entertained  by  his  droll 
stories,  and  by  his  echoing  laughter  as  he  told  them  in  the 
cool  church  of  Sant'  Abondio.  Driven  from  Como  by  a 
quarrel,  he  went  to  Pisa.  Characteristically,  though  Shelley 
was  there  at  the  same  time,  Landor  avoided  meeting  him. 

In  182 1  he  removed  to  Florence,  where  he  lived  for  five 
years  in  the  Palazzo  Medici,  and  for  three  in  the  Villa 
Castiglione,  a  short  distance  out  of  Florence,  devoting  him- 
self mainly  during  the  whole  period  to  the  writing  of  the 
Imaginary  Conversations.  The  first  two  volumes,  containing 
thirty-six  Conversations,  were  published  first  in  1824,  by 
Taylor  and  Hessey,  who  were  just  about  that  time  giving 
up  the  publication  of  the  London  Magazine,  in  which  the 
Opium  Eater  and  the  Essays  of  Elia  had  appeared  two  or 

the  worn  and  withered  present.     All  children  were  specially  dear  to 
Landor  ;  but  of  all,  her  grandchildren  were  the  dearest." 

1  Elder  brother  of  the  authors  of  Guesses  at  Truth.  His  son,  Mr. 
A.  J.  C.  Hare,  author  of  Walks  in  Rome,  etc.,  gives,  in  T/ie  Story  of 
ATy  Life,  a  number  of  personal  reminiscences  of  Landor.  In  a  letter 
written  a  few  months  before  Landor's  death,  after  speaking  of  his 
broken  health,  Mr.  Hare  tells  how  he  used  still  to  like  to  "say  over  the 
old  names,  —  'Francis,  Augustus,  Julius,  1  miei  tre  imperatori.  T  have 
never  known  any  family  I  loved  so  much  as  yours.  I  loved  Francis 
most,  then  Julius,  then  Augustus.  But  I  loved  them  all.  Francis 
was  the  best  friend  I  ever  had.'" 


XX  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

three  years  before.  The  number  of  Conversations  written 
and  pubHshed  between  182 1  and  1829  is  about  eighty;  the 
whole  number  produced  before  Landor's.  death,  not  quite 
one  hundred  and  fifty. 

During  the  Florentine  period  Landor  led,  despite  certain 
annoying  difficulties  incident  to  the  publishing  of  his  books, 
a  pretty  tranquil  and  satisfactory  life.  He  was  doing,  in 
agreeable  surroundings,  the  work  he  most  enjoyed ;  his 
increasing  reputation  as  a  literary  figure  attracted  to  him 
many  of  the  men  best  worth  knowing;  he  had  several  dear 
friends ;  his  wife  appears  to  have  been  less  vexatious  than 
usual  ;  and  in  his  children  he  took  unbounded  delight. 

At  Fiesole,  where  he  next  lived  for  some  years  in  a  villa 
bought  with  money  advanced  by  a  friend,  he  continued  to 
romp  with  his  children,  to  tend  his  flowers,  to  make  com- 
panions of  his  numerous  pets,  to  write  poetry,  to  revise, 
enlarge,  and  add  to  his  Conversations.  Several  of  his  poems, 
especially  A  Fiesolan  Idyl,  suggest  the  beauty  of  the  place 
and  the  charm  of  his  life  there.  In  1832,  while  on  a  short 
visit  to  England,  he  saw  Oabb  Robinson,  Flaxman,  Lamb, 
Coleridge,  Julius  Hare,  Southey,  and  Wordsworth.  It  was 
at  Fiesole,  whither  he  returned  in  1833,  that  he  composed 
the  Citation  and  Examination  of  William  Shakespeare,  Peri- 
cles and  Aspasia,  and,  in  part,  the  l^entamcron,  which  relate 
respectively,  as  their  names  show,  to  the  three  great  periods 
of  Elizabethan  England,  classic  Greece,  and  Italy  on  the 
verge  of  the  Renaissance.  The  last  two,  of  which  the 
subjects  were  especially  congenial  to  him,  and  the  best  of 
the  Conversations  establish  his  title  to  high  rank  as  a  writer 
of  prose. 

Before  the  appearance  of  the  Pcntameron,  Landor  and  his 
wife  had  again  separated,  this  time  definitively,  by  mutual 
consent.  For  two  years  he  drifted  from  place  to  place  in 
Italy   and  England.     At  length,  in    1837,  he   took   up  his 


fXIKODUCTION.  XXI 

abode  at  Bath,  there  to  live  for  twenty  years,  writing  dili- 
gently, frequently  going  up  to  London  to  meet  the  fashion- 
able literary  people  whom  Lady  Blessington  and  Count 
D'Orsay  entertained  at  Gore  House,  taking  daily  walks  with 
his  bright-eyed,  yellow-tailed  Pomeranian  dog,^  gradually 
towards  the  latter  years  losing  his  mental  strength,  until 
finally,  in  1858,  he  was  forced  to  escape  by  flight  the  con- 
sequences of  a  suit  for  libel  in  which  his  tempestuous  quix- 
otism had  involved  him.  The  story  of  the  squabble  at  Bath 
is  somewhat  piteous,  though  also,  as  told  by  Forster,  unin- 
tentionally amusing.  Landor,  eighty-four  years  old,  running 
away  from  the  entanglements  of  an  imprudent  intimacy  with 
a  young  girl,  was  discovered  by  Dickens  at  Forster's  house 
in  London,  where  he  had  taken  refuge  for  the  night  while 
Forster  was  giving  a  dinner  party.  Dickens,  who  had  left 
the  table  to  go  to  cheer  the  old  man,  came  back  laughing, 
and  saying  that  he  "  found  him  very  jovial,  and  that  his  whole 
conversation  was  upon  the  characters  of  Catullus,  TibuUus, 
and  other  Latin  poets."  " 

It  was  at  Bath  tliat  Andrea  of  Hungary,  Giovanna  of 
Naples,  and  Fra  Rupert  were  written,  a  trilogy  which,  by 
reason  of  the  author's  inability  to  conceive  of  the  necessity 

1  No  notice  of  Laiidor  should  omit  mention  of  his  dogs,  Parigi, 
Pomero,  and  Giallo,  liis  constant  companions,  with  whom  he  never 
quarreled.  Pomero's  death  is  commemorated  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Boyle 
pulilished  by  Mr.  Lowell  in  the  Century  (Feljruary,  1SS8).  In  Mr. 
Colviu's  Laiidor  (p.  212)  are  some  pretty  lines  to  Giallo,  Pomero's 
successor. 

-It  may  he  well  to  mention,  in  connection  with  the  whole  scandal, 
Mrs.  Linton's  indignant  denial  of  the  truth  of  the  version  commonly 
received.  "  Of  one  thing,"  she  says,  "  I  am  sure,  that  his  affection  for 
'  Erminie  '  was  not  the  feeling  his  enemies  have  made  it  out  to  be.  In 
his  madness  he  wrote  some  bad  things  enough  about  the  matter ;  but 
he  never  wilfully  said  a  word  that  could  shock  the  most  sensitive  girl ; 
and  I  am  as  certain  as  (jf  my  own  existence  that  he  never  showed  any 
feeling  whatsoever  of  the  kind  I  mean." 


xxu  INTRODUCTION. 

uf  plot  to  a  play,  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  understand. 
The  character  of  Giovanna  is  in  accordance  with  his  own 
pleasure,  not  with  Sismondi's  history.  There  are  scenes  in 
w^hich  she  lives,  but  they  are  not  so  knit  together  as  to 
present  a  clear  idea  of  the  character  as  a  whole.  Another 
play,  the  Siege  of  A/icona,  soon  followed.  Interesting  and 
scholarly  criticisms  on  Theocritus,  Catullus,  and  Petrarch 
belong  to  the  same  period.  And  a  few  years  afterward 
came  the  HcIIeiiics,  for  the  genuinely  Greek  tone  of  which 
some  critics  vouch.  They  are  undoubtedly  the  crowning 
literary  performance  of  Landor's  later  life. 

Still  he  kept  on  writing  to  the  end.  As  late  as  1863  he 
published  a  volume,  and  even  after  that  he  wrote  dialogues 
in  prose  and  in  verse.  There  is  little  to  tell  of  the  closing 
years.  Penniless  and  mentally  enfeebled,  he  received  great 
kindness  from  Browning,  and  lived  for  a  time  at  Siena  with 
W.  W.  Story.  Afterward  he  went  again  to  live  in  Florence, 
whither,  in  1864,  Mr.  Swinburne,  aged  twenty-seven, 

"  —  came  as  one  wliosc  thoughts  half  linger. 
Half  run  before, 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 
That  England  bore." 

It  was  not  very  long  after  this  visit  that,  on  Sept.  17,  1864, 
the  "  unsubduable  old  Roman  "  was  at  last  subdued. 

During  three-ciuarters  of  a  life  of  almost  ninety  years, 
extending  from  before  the  Battle  of  Lexington  to  within  a 
few  months  of  Lee's  surrender,  Landor  might  have  said 
with  Walt  Whitman,  "  1  understand  the  large  hearts  of 
heroes,"  for  his  companions  were  mainly  the  illustrious  men 
and  women  of  the  past.  From  the  point  of 'view  of  literary 
production,  his  life  falls  into  three  periods,  thus  marked  off 
by  Mr.  Colvin  : 


INTRO  n  i  'C  7  ■/ON.  xxiii 

1 795-1 82  I,  J'oc/iis,  Cicbir^  Count  Jiclinn,  Idyllia  Jfcroka. 
1821-1837,  Imaginary     Conversations^    Jixainination    of 

Shakespeare,  J'erielcs  and  ^-Ispasia,  I'entani- 

eron. 
1837-1803,  miscellaneous    prose    and    verse.      In    this 

period     the    Hellenics    are    foremost     in 

importance  and  beauty. 
Since  it  is  as  a  writer  of  prose  that  he  is  chiefly  memorable, 
the  general  remarks  which  follow  will  deal  for  the  most  part 
with  the  work  produced  during  the  sixteen  years  immediately 
preceding  the  accession  of  Queen  Victoria. 

Forster,  whose  profusion  of  enthusiasm  somewhat  weakens 
his  indispensable  work  in  behalf  of  Landor,  thus  describes 
the  literary  character  of  the  plan  of  the  Conversations  :  "All 
the  leading  shapes  of  the  past,  the  most  familiar  and  the 
most  august,  were  to  be  called  up  again.  Modes  of  think- 
ing the  most  various,  and  events  the  most  distant,  were 
proposed  for  his  theme.  Beside  the  fires  of  the  present, 
the  ashes  of  the  past  were  to  be  rekindled  and  to  shoot 
again  into  warmth  and  brightness.  The  scene  was  to  be 
shifting  as  life,  but  continuous  as  time.  Down  it  were  to 
pass  successions  of  statesmen,  lawyers,  and  churchmen ; 
wits  and  men  of  letters ;  party  men,  soldiers,  and  kings ;  the 
most  tender,  delicate,  and  noble  women  ;  figures  fresh  from 
the  schools  of  Athens  and  the  courts  of  Rome  ;  philoso- 
phers philosophising,  and  politicians  discussing  questions 
of  state ;  poets  talking  of  poetry,  men  of  the  world  of 
matters  worldly,  and  English,  Italians,  and  French  of  their 
respective  literatures  and  manners.  .  .  .  The  requisites 
for  it  were  such  as  no  other  existing  writer  possessed  in 
the  same  degree  as  he  did.  Nothing  had  been  indifferent 
to  him  that  affected  humanity.  Poetry  and  history  had 
delivered  up  to  him  their  treasures,  and  the  secrets  of 
antiquity  were  his." 


XXIV  lA-TRODL'CriON. 

The  usual  classification  of  the  Conversations  as  dramatic 
and  non-dramatic  is  convenient.  Of  the  first  class  a  list 
may  easily  be  made  of  a  score  or  more  of  scenes  which  in  a 
restricted  and  qualified  sense  are  really  dramatic.  The 
speakers,  that  is  to  say,  are  felt  behind  the  words,  and  the 
effect  of  each  speech  is  felt  in  calling  forth  the  reply.  In 
some  of  these  scenes,  moreover,  there  is,  if  not  dramatic 
development,  at  least  dramatic  movement :  action,  though 
not  mentioned,  is  sometimes  implied.  Instances  will  occur 
to  every  reader.  The  beautiful  Conversation  between  Wal- 
ton, Cotton,  and  Oldways,  a  gem  not  so  well  known  as  it 
deserves  to  be,  contains  a  good  deal  of  such  implied 
incident,  as  well  as  a  little  implied  landscape.  In  such 
scenes  Landor  shows  at  their  best  what  Mr.  Gosse  hap- 
pily terms  his  "dramatic  aptitudes."  Jn  others,  although, 
as  was  once  said  of  Sir  Henry  Irving,  he  does  not  get  quite 
out  of  himself,  he  yet  gets  pretty  completely  into  the 
character.  Irving's  "  Louis  XI."  and  his  "  Hamlet "  may 
serve  roughly  to  illustrate  the  distinction  :  the  one  is  the 
French  king  as  you  feel  he  must  have  been  ;  the  other  is 
the  English  actor  impersonating  the  Danish  prince.  So 
Leofric  and  Godiva  live  as  individually  as  you  ox  I  ;  whereas 
Epictetus  and  Epicurus  are  little  else  than  Landor's  mouth- 
pieces —  interesting  mouthpieces,  and  to  some  degree 
dramatically  conceived,  but  not,  like  the  Lord  of  Coventry 
and  his  Lady,  inevitable  creations.  Still  other  Conversa- 
tions do  not  move  at  all.  Some  of  these  contain  engaging 
matter  ; '    but  some   are  dull  and  heavy  discussions  which 

'  Sometimes  —  in  the  opinion  of  at  least  twf)  judicious  and  fair- 
minded  men  of  the  present  day,  one  eminent  in  law,  the  other  in  letters  — 
valuable  matter.  Writing  in  the  Fortnii^htly  in  1S90,  Sir  P'rederick 
Pollock  casually  mentions  the  Conversations  between  Southey  and 
Landor  as  being  "  the  best  commentary  on  Milton's  poetical  workman- 
ship yet  produced."     And    Professor   Dowden,  who,  being  a  staunch 


INTRODUCTION.  xxv 

there  is  no  more  occasion  to  read  than  there  is  to  read 
Sordello — a  task  that  an  intelHgent  man  may  indefinitely 
defer  without  thereby  disqualifying  himself  to  speak  aright 
meanwhile  of  the  author  of  Men  and  Women. 

Any  one  may  likewise  be  excused  from  reading  the  Exatni- 
nation  of  Shakespeare^  for  it  is  rather  tedious,  and  lacks  satiric 
verisimilitude.  It  contains,  to  be  sure,  several  good  bits; 
but,  on  the  whole,  Landor's  remarks  on  Plato's  wit  apply  to 
this  and  other  attempts  of  his  own  to  be  funny :  "  What 
painful  twisting  of  unelastic  stuff  !  "  he  makes  Lucian,  who 
was  frankly  and  naturally  amusing,  say;  and  again:  "He 
sadly  mistook  the  qualities  of  his  mind  in  attempting  the 
facetious ;  or  rather  he  fancied  he  possessed  one  quality 
more  than  belonged  to  him."  The  style,  moreover,  is,  for 
the  most  part,  laboriously  imitative. 

Pericles  and  Astasia,  on  the  other  hand,  throbs  with 
beauty  which  it  is  the  custom  to  call  Greek.  Whether  the 
clear,  simple,  straightforward,  dignified,  graceful  treatment 
of  Athenian  life  is  Attic,  perhaps  admits  of  discussion.  In 
the  face  of  Goethe's  opinion  that  Sa/nson  Agonistcs  was  the 
only  modern  work  which  had  "  caught  fire  from  the  breath 
of  the  antique  spirit,"  it  may  be  prudent  to  think  twice  before 
accepting  the  hasty  judgment  of  every  stripling  reviewer  as 
to  the  Greek  or  Homeric  character  of  much  recent  work. 
Pains  have  been  taken  to  show  that  Kingsley's  Andromeda, 
and  that  Air.  Swinburne's  Atalanta,  and  particularly  his 
Erecht/icus,  are   Greek.      All  three  are  delightful  ;   the  last, 

Wordswoithiaii,  is  free  from  prepossessions  in  Landor's  favour,  refers 
to  his  criticism  of  Wordsworth  in  the  dialogue  of  Southey  and  Torson 
as  if  he  thought  it  worth  considering. 

1  Lamb,  who  died  the  year  of  its  pubHcation,  made  a  careless  remark 
to  the  effect  that  nobody  else  but  .Shakespeare  could  have  written  it; 
Tennyson,  going  to  the  other  extreme,  is  reported  by  a  friend  to  have 
despised  it. 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

especially,  is  no  less  than  a  splendidly  successful  imitation. 
But  whether  it,  or  any  such  attempt  to  embody  in  English 
the  Greek  spirit,  can  rightly  be  called  more  than  an  imita- 
tion, may  be  questioned.  It  is  true  that  the  author  of  some 
of  the  most  pertinent  criticism  of  Homer  written  in  the 
past  forty  years  calls  Clough  Homeric,  and  that  one  of  the 
authors  of  the  translation  of  Homer  accepted  by  the  present 
generation  of  Englishmen  calls  Dumas  Homeric,  and  that 
each  makes  out  a  fairly  good  case.  But  it  is  unlikely  that 
Homer  would  have  suggested  Uumas  to  Arnold  or  Clough 
to  Mr.  Lang.  The  contention  is  not  that  there  are  no  points 
of  resemblance,  but  that  the  bandying  about  of  such  epi- 
thets by  tiros  tends  to  blur  real  distinctions,  and  so  to 
perplex  criticism.  It  does  not  necessarily  enhance  the  value 
of  a  work  to  call  it  Greek,  nor  help  us  to  understand  its 
value.  If  a  Homeric  Clough  and  a  Homeric  Dumas  are 
difficult  to  accept  together,  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  recon- 
cile either  with  Lowell's  judicious  remark  that  "between  us 
and  the  Greeks  lies  the  grave  of  their  murdered  paganism, 
making  our  minds  and  theirs  irreconcilable." 

As  to  the  excellence  of  style  of  Pericles  and  Aspasia, 
there  is  less  room  for  two  opinions.  "Though  not  alien  to 
the  treatment  of  modern  life,"  writes  Lord  Houghton,  a 
critic  of  Landor  at  once  sympathetic  and  discreet,  "  it  [his 
style]  is  undoubtedly  more  at  home  in  the  old  world ;  and 
in  such  '  Conversations '  as  those  of  LucuUus  and  C.tsar, 
Epictetus  and  Seneca,  Epicurus  and  the  Grecian  Maidens, 
Marcus  Tullius  and  Quinctus  Cicero,  and  in  the  '  Epistles ' 
of  Pericles  and  Aspasia,  there  is  a  sense  of  fitness  of  lan- 
guage that  suggests  the  desire  to  see  them  restored,  as  it 
were,  to  the  original  tongues."  And  he  goes  on  to  say  that 
they  would  be  the  best  possible  things  from  which  to  select 
passages  for  translation  into  Latin  and  Greek,  so  at  one 
are  the  thought  and  the  expression  of  it.     This  praise  of 


lATKODUCTION.  XXVU 

Lord  Houghton's  couics  perilously  near  to  suggesting  the 
presence  of  that  sophomoric  hybrid  known  to  teachers  as 
"translation  English" — native  or  naturalised  words  so 
combined  as  to  give  to  the  style  a  foreign  cast.  In  Landor 
may  doubtless  be  found  instances  of  that  sort  of  solecism  ; 
but  one  would  not  be  apt  tu  look  for  such  crudity  in  Ferules 
and  Aspasia,  the  appropriate  phrasing  of  which  shows  easy 
mastery  of  idiom.  In  none  of  his  writings,  indeed,  is  the 
style  more  essentially  and  naturally  English,  more  harmoni- 
ously dignified,  freer  from  the  faults  commonly  imputed  to 
it,  richer  in  positive  merits. 

In  Pericles  ami  Aspasia  there  are  dull  passages,  whic 
any  one  is  at  liberty  to  skip ;  and  there  are  anachronisms, 
inaccuracy  in  detail,  and  such  like  handles  for  pedants,  which 
none  else  need  grasp.  The  story,  which  is  slight,  is  in  the 
temper  of  the  time ;  it  is  founded,  in  the  main,  on  incidents 
recorded  of  the  classic  lovers,  and  to  these  are  added  others 
which  are  in  keeping.  The  passion  is  pagan  and  free  from 
self-consciousness,  deep  in  tranquillity  of  expression,  abso- 
lute in  devotion,  restrained,  as  in  Shakespeare's  Sonnets, 
by  a  sense  of  beauty.  The  vitality  of  the  book  is  to  some 
degree  shown  by  a  comparison  of  it  with  Becker's  Charides 
and  GallKS,  with  Hamerling's  Aspasia,  and  with  numerous 
other  clever  and  learned  archaeological  exercises  that  might 
be  named,  which  are  all,  by  contrast,  dead  restorations  of 
the  past.  The  spirit  of  its  period  quickens  none  of  these 
as  intrinsic  beauty  —  Hellenic  and  Landorian  fused  — 
quickens  a  great  part  of  Pericles  and  Aspasia.  It  may  be 
added,  as  a  crown  of  grace,  that  here,  for  once,  despite 
irrelevance  and  digression,  Landor  constructs  well. 

In  the  Pentameron  it  is  likewise  a  fact  that  tedious 
passages  occur  —  from  which  escape  is  as  simple  as  in  the 
other  case.  Perhaps  it  offers  fewer  temptations  to  skip  than 
Pericles  and  Aspasia.     The  most  obvious  handle  for  pedants 


XXVIU  INTRODUCTION. 

is  the  perverse  estimate  of  Dante.  The  deUght  the  book 
affords  arises  from  the  great  charm  of  the  relation  between 
the  two  friends,  from  the  exquisite  picture  set  in  an  exquisite 
frame,  from  the  episodical  characters  introduced  now  and 
then  with  a  skill  unusual  in  Landor,  from  occasional  passages 
unsurpassed  even  by  himself,  from  the  quality  of  the  Eng- 
lish throughout.  Whether  or  not  the  temper  be  Tuscan, 
the  language  assuredly  is  a  web  of  gold,  closely  woven, 
strong,  flexible,  brilliant,  visible  in  every  detail  of  texture, 
in  every  detail  disclosing  new  beauties  the  more  carefully  it 
is  examined.  Landor  too  frequently  shares  with  Emerson  a 
"formidable  tendency  to  the  lapidary  style";  in  parts  of 
the  Pcntaincron.,  however,  he  comes  nearer  than  almost  any- 
where else  to  that  "warm  glow,  blithe  movement,  and  soft 
pliancy  of  life"  which  Arnold  finds  in  the  Attic  style. 

To  read  Landor's  poetry  after  reading  much  of  his  prose 
is  to  perceive  that  he  was  right  in  regarding  it  as  the  less 
serious  and  complete  expression  of  himself.  "  Poetry  was 
always,"  he  writes,  "my  amusement,  prose  my  study  and 
business."  Though  he  could  produce  verse  easily,  his 
.thoughts  do  ncjt  "voluntary  move  harmonious  numbers,"^ 
nor  does  "  harmonious  madness "  How  from  his  lips,  nor 
does  he  pour  "  the  unpremeditated  lay."  His  poetry  is,  for 
the  most  part,  rather  the  work  of  a  master  of  speech,  as  has 
been  said,  than  of  song.  TJie  long  narrative  and  dramatic 
ypoems  contain,  it  is  true,  line  llights.  Parts  of  Gcbir,  in 
particular,  bear  a  close  external  likeness  to  Milton,  De 
Quincey  speaks  in  flamboyant  phrase  of  certain  passages  in 
Count  Julian  "  to  which,  for  their  solemn  grandeur,  one 
raises  one's  hat  as  at  night  in  walking  under  the  Coliseum," 
and  of  others  "  which,  for  their  luxury  of  loveliness,  should 

^  Mihon's  phrase  is  almost  identical  with  Cadyle'.s  definition  of 
poetry  as  '^musical  T/ioii<^/it"  and  of  the  poet  as  one  "  whcj  tliinks  in 
that  manner."     See  I'hc  Hero  as  Poet. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

be  inscribed  on  the  phylacteries  of  brides,  or  upon  the 
frescoes  of  Ionia,  illustrated  by  the  gorgeous  allegories  of 
Rubens."  But  neither  are  these  long  poems  so  well  sus- 
tained as  some  of  the  long  Conversations,  nor  is  their 
verbal  pattern  so  deftly  woven.  Effort  is  so  obvious 
as  to  fatigue.  In  short  occasional  poems,  on  the  other 
hand,  not  requiring  such  continuous  attention,  success  is 
frequent,  for  in  them  the  perfect  turn  of  phrase  often 
perfectly  fits  the  thought.  Some  of  the  Hellenics,  again, 
have  an  idyllic  quality  which  leads  one  critic  to  say  that 
they  "  would  hardly  have  been  written  otherwise  at  Alexan- 
dria in  the  days  of  Theocritus"  —  a  quality  concisely 
described  in  Mr.  Swinburne's  much-quoted  lines  : 

"  And  through  the  trumpet  of  a  child  of  Rome 
Rang  the  pure  music  of  the  llutes  of  Greece." 

Their  charm  is,  indeed,  unique  in  English.^  Yet  even  ini 
the  best  of  them  one  feels,  recalling  the  exquisite  allegories  * 
of  the  Fentamcroii,  that  the  delicate  strain  of  sentiment 
running  through  and  idealising  them  might  have  been  as 
adequately  expressed  in  prose  —  in  Landor's  prose.  Landor 
in  verse  seldom,  to  put  it  in  one  word,  transports  ;^  so  that 
it  is  not  obvious  what  Mr.  Swinburne  means  in  ranking 
him  as  a  poet  between  Byron  and  Shelley.  In  prose  he  not 
infrequently   does   transport,  as  truly  as  they  do   in   verse. 

1  Professor  Dowden,  in  an  interesting  page,  ingeniously  discriminates 
between  the  Hellenics  and  Andre  Chenier's  Poesies  Antiques,  likening 
the  English  poems  to  "  designs  upon  Greek  urns,"  the  French  to  "paint- 
ings upon  Pompeian  walls,  but  nobler." 

2  Non  satis  est  pulchra  esse  poemata  ;  dulcia  sunto, 
Et.  quocumque  volent,  animuni  aiiditoris  agiinto. 

Ars  Poet  tea. 
Horace's  idea  has  been  felicitously  rendered  : 

Form,  grace  will  not  suffice  ;  the  poet's  art 
Must  stir  the  passions,  and  subdue  the  heart. 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

Nor  is  the  reason  of  this  particular  difference  between  his 
^  poetry  and  that  of  his  romantic  contemporaries  to  be  found 
/  ,  in  the  fact  that  he  was,  as  it  is  always  said  of  him,  and  truly 
/  said,  classic.  He  was  Greek  in  a  sense  in  which,  for 
instance,  Keats,^  who  is  sometimes  called  so,  was  not.  His 
method  is  to  present  the  object  undraped  ;  Keats,  whose 
love  of  beauty,  though  essentially  different,  was  not  more 
disinterested  than  his,  presents  the  object  clad  in  the 
drapery  of  modern  association  and  personal  feeling.  The 
effect  of  the  one  method  is  totally  unlike  that  of  the  other, 
as  Y^ezts's  Hyper /on  and  Landor's -/yif/Z^/z/Vj' sufficiently  show. 
The  greater  popularity  of  Keats's  method  is  explained  by 
Landor  in  the  line,  "  Most  have  an  eye  for  colour,  few  for 
form."  The  classic  form  of  the  HeNenics  is,  however,  no 
'  reason  why  they  should  not  throb  and  glow  with  vitality 
to  as  high  a  degree  as  Hypcrio/i :  surely  nothing  is  more 
classic  and  nothing  more  alive  with  emotion  than  Greek 
sculpture  and  Greek  drama.  Yet  that  vitality  one  does  not 
find  in  the  Hellenics.  One  finds  in  them  classic  workman- 
*^hip,  and  the  beauty  resulting  from  the  exercise  of  that 
workmanship  on  subjects  of  captivating  grace  and  lasting 
charm  —  beauty  of  a  high  order,  but  not  deeply  moving. 
The  secret  of  the  failure  of  Landor's  poetry  to  reach  the 
pitch  of  his  best  prose  is  simply  that  verse  was  to  him  a 
less  natural  mode  of  utterance  than  prose.  Technically, 
the  verse  and  the  prose  are  much  alike  and,  at  their  best, 
equally  flawless.  The  superiority  of  the  prose  lies  in  Lan- 
dor's closer  affinity  to  the  rhythm  of  prose  than  to  that  of 
verse.  When  he  had  a  deep  feeling  to  put  into  words,  he 
habitually  used  prose  ;  for  a  beautiful  fancy  he  often  used 
verse  of   consummate  charm.      The  lines  to   Mary  Lamb, 

'  Landor  writes  to  Forster  :  "  Keats  was  no  more  pagan  than  Words- 
worth himself.  lietween  you  and  me,  the  style  of  Keats  is  extremely 
far  removed  from  the  very  boundaries  of  Greece." 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxi 

written  on  the  day  he  heard  of  her  brother's  death,  and 
sent  in  a  letter  to  Crabb  Robinson,  are  perhaps  alone  in  his 
poetry  —  not  even  excepting  Rose  Aylmer,  "the  most 
enchanting  of  his  minor  poems"  —  as  the  spontaneous 
expression  of  a  deep  feeling  which  could  not  conceivably 
have  been  so  well  expressed  in  prose ;  and  but  little  of 
his  poetry  approaches  those  verses  in  the  special  power  to 
move  that  so  distinguishes  poets,  both  classic  and  romantic, 
whose  instinctive  utterance  is  not,  as  Landor's  is,  in  "  the 
other  harmony  of  prose." 

"A  classic  writing  in  a  romantic  age,"^  Landor  has  had! 
scant  appreciation.  Only  a  few  of  his  contemporaries  cared' 
much  for  his  work,  and  now  that  he  has  been  dead  above  a 
third  of  a  century,  he- is  read  by  but  a  small  portion  of  even 
literary  folk.  That  is  natural  enough,  for  he  is  rather  bulky, 
and  by  no  means  always  interesting.  The  dialogue  is  a  form 
not  attractive  to  the  cursory  reader.  Moreover,  the  subjects 
which  most  interested  Landor  do  not,  as  a  rule,  allure  any 
but  historical  or  classical  scholars.  Nor  is  his  style 
so  inviting  and  ingratiating  as  Lamb's,  for  instance,  or 
De  Quincey's,  or  Ruskin's,  or  Newman's.  He  is  a  little 
difficult  of  approach,  for  he  does  not  meet  the  reader  half- 
way. He  professed  sincerely  not  to  care  for  popularity  ;  it 
is  wholly  likely  that  he  will  never  have  it.  That  is  as  it 
should  be.  He  ought  not  to  be  popular,  for  he  was  out  of 
sympathy  with  the  time  he  lived  in,  and  is  as  much  aloof  as 
ever  from  the  present  or  from  any  future  time  that  can  be 
foreseen.     He  came   charged   with   no   "  message "  to   the 

1  For  suggestive  discussion  of  the  classical  and  romantic  spirits,  see 
the  last  essay  in  Walter  I'ater's  A/'preciatioiis ;  also  the  preface  to 
Colvin's  Selections  from  landor.  Landor's  Epistle  To  the  Author  of 
^^ Festns"  (Laxt  Fruit,  1S53)  contains  his  own  mature  reflections  on  the 
subject,  together  with  remarks  on  some  of  his  predecessors  and 
contemporaries. 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION. 

world  ;  his  thoughts  do  not  form  a  philosophy  of  life ;  he 
does  not  directly  encourage  or  console  ;  he  neither  prompts 
to  action  nor  lightens  the  burden  of  the  weary. 

Carried  along  by  the  scientific  drift  of  the  day,  certain 
critics  of  Landor  have  sought  to  define  his  relation  to  his 
predecessors  and  to  his  successors.  They  trace  his  literary 
pedigree  and  issue,  with  all  the  affinities  and  hereditary 
influences  implied  by  that  investigation.  The  result  is 
neither  very  clear  nor  very  fruitful.  When  the  patent  facts 
have  been  stated  that  he  owed  much  to  the  Greek  and  Latin 
classics  and  to  Milton,  less  to  Cowper  '  and  one  or  two 
others,  that  analogies  exist  between  his  prose  and  Ben  Jon- 
son's,^  that  the  effect  of  his  style  on  a  few  of  his  contem- 
poraries may  be  fancied  in  some  of  their  collateral  literary 
descendants,  there  remains  little  further  to  say  on  that 
score.  In  reality,  the  complexity  of  nineteenth-century 
literature  is  so  great  that  any  recent  writer  of  original  power 
is  far  more  difficult  to  account  for  than  a  writer  of  the  age, 
for  instance,  of  Elizabeth.  The  playwrights  from  Marlowe 
to  Webster  exemplify  the  theory  of  literary  evolution  with  a 

1  That  he  thought  highly  of  Cowper  is  shown  by  sundry  bits  of 
criticism  uttered  by  characters  in  different  Conversations.  For  instance, 
in  one  Cowper  is  "  more  diversified  in  his  poetry  and  more  classical 
than  any  since" ;  and  again,  "  in  some  passages,  he  stands  quite 
unrivalled  by  any  recent  poet  of  this  century,"  and  "  nothing  of  his  is 
out  of  place  or  out  of  season "  ;  and  elsewhere,  "  Cowper  is  worthy 
of  his  succession  to  Goldsmith  ;  more  animated,  more  energetic,  more 
diversified.  Sometimes  he  is  playful,  oftener  serious ;  and  you  go  with 
him  in  either  path  with  equal  satisfaction."  There  are  more  good 
remarks  to  like  effect,  all  presuma!)ly  giving  Landor's  own  opinion  of 
the  poet  by  whom  he  said  that  he  was  first  moved  to  care  for  poetry, 
and  whom  he  called  "  the  only  modern  poet  who  is  so  little  of  a 
mannerist  as  I  am." 

2  lie  writes,  in  1850,  to  Forster:  "  l^en  Jonson  I  have  studied, 
principally  for  the  purity  of  his  English.  Mad  it  not  been  for  him  and 
Shakespeare,  our  language  would  have  fallen  into  ruin." 


TNTROnUCTION.  xxxill 

definiteness  not  found  in  the  poets  from,  let  us  say,  Words- 
worth to  Tennyson.  The  half-century 'of  English  romantic 
drama  is  developed  from  adolescence,  through  maturity,  to 
decay.  The  century  of  English  romantic  poetry  shows  no 
such  organic  unity  and  completeness  ;  an  era  rather  of 
individuality  than  of  solidarity,  it  has  been  constantly 
increasing  in  diversity.  Professional  critics  busily  arrange 
and  classify,  only  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  facile  rearrange- 
ments and  reclassifications  of  new  experts.  Such  work  is 
tempting  and  charming,  it  may  be,  and  occasionally  valua- 
ble. Yet,  when  all  is  done,  the  words  with  which  that 
accomplished  dilettante,  the  late  J.  A.  Symonds,  closes  his 
comparison  of  Victorian  with  Elizabethan  poetry  are  still 
worth  pondering.  "  This  intimate  and  pungent  personality," 
he  writes  from  amid  the  snows  of  Davos,  "  settling  the 
poet's  attitude  toward  things,  moulding  his  moral  sympathies, 
flavouring  his  philosophy  of  life  and  conduct,  colouring  his 
style,  separating  him  from  fellow-workers,  is  the  leading 
characteristic  of  Victorian  literature  —  that  which  distin- 
guishes it  most  markedly  from  the  Elizabethan."  If  tliat 
be  measurably  true  of  a  literature  essentially  romantic  in  its 
main  current  (a  literature  of  which  the  vitality  consists  in 
the  romantic  spirit  that  differently  inspired  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  Scott,  Byron,  Keats,  Shelley,  Browning,  Tenny- 
son), do  not  the  words  apply  with  double  force  to  so  strongly 
marked  a  personality  as  Landor's.  who  was  not  of  his  time, 
but,  to  an  extreme  degree,  a  man  apart,  an  exception,  an 
individual  ?  Even  allowing  him  to  have  been,  as  Mr.  Aubrey 
de  Vere  calls  him,  "  the  earliest  of  our  modern  poets  specially 
characterised  by  their  devotion  to  ideal  beauty  and  to  clas- 
sical associations,"  he  was,  at  most,  a  forerunner  without  a 
following.  Tonic  as  may  be  the  effect  of  his  writings  on  an 
admiring  student  who  does  not  blindly  adore,  their  direct 
impress    on    the    literature    of    the    century    is    almost    as 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

indiscernible   as  the  effect  of   the  seiches  in  the  Lake  of 
Geneva  on  the  level  of  the  water  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

Yet  the  artistic  value  of  his  best  work  is  of  a  high  order. 
Professor  Saintsbury,  echoing  Forster,  is  right  in  saying 
that  '•  if  we  tried  to  do  without  Landor,  we  should  lose 
something  with  which  no  one  else  could  supply  us  "  ;  so  is 
Mr.  Crump  in  saying  that  at  death  he  left  "a  gap  in 
literature  not  yet  filled  up  "  ;  and  most  especially  right  is 
Emerson  in  calling  him  "  one  of  the  foremost  of  that  small 
K  band  who  make  good  in  the  nineteenth  century  the  claims 
of  pure  literature."  Precisely  what  meaning  attaches  to 
the  term  "pure  literature"  does  not  especially  matter.  In 
a  vague  sort  of  way  Emerson  may  have  been  thinking  of 
him  as  one  of  those  writers  whose  appeal  to  the  aisthetic 
sense  is  so  immediate  and  strong  as  to  leave  no  place  for 
regret  that  that  is  the  only  appeal  they  make.  Such  is,  at 
least,  a  perfectly  legitimate  feeling  about  Landor's  best 
work.  His  genius  for  style  and  his  devotion  to  literature 
on  the  aesthetic  side  give  him  a  position  from  which  all 
possible  talk  about  high  purpose  or  practical  aim,  or  the 
like,  cannot  budge  him.  Those  are  side  issues  of  literary 
criticism.  The  literature  that  lasts  may  or  may  not  have 
been  originally  inspired  by  love  of  humanity  or  by  other  lofty 
motive.  That  which  has  its  spring  in  love  of  beauty  stands 
at  least  a  fair  chance  of  lasting  while  man's  thirst  for  art 
shall  remain  unquenched. 

y  Landor  is  impelled  by  just  such  love  of  beauty  of  form 
,  as  few  people  —  even  educated  people  —  are  likely  to  sympa- 
thise with,  for  his  instinct  is  highly  special.  Lacking  ability 
to  bring  large  masses  into  subordination  to  a  controlling 
purpose,  he  yet  has  exceptional  skill  in  expressing  his  love 
'  of  beauty  of  form  in  detail.  Herein  resides  much  of  the 
strong,  if  circumscribed,  originality  on  which  he  so  plumed 
himself  as  to  reject  ideas  or  phrases  that  he  suspected  him- 


introduction:  xxxv 

self  of  having  got  from  other  writers,  to  use  only  imagery  of 
his  own  invention,  to  shun  quotation.  Shakespeare,  indiffer- 
ent to  the  source  of  his  material,  unblushingly  appropriated 
whatever  happened  to  come  to  hand.  "  Yet,"  as  Landor 
says  of  him,  "he  was  more  original  than  the  originals.  lie 
breathed  upon  dead  bodies  and  brought  them  into  life." 
His  may  be  regarded  as  the  most  broadly  human  type  of 
originality.  Landor's,  on  the  other  hand,  is  near  of  kin,  in 
its  aristocratic  fastidiousness,  to  his  constitutional  repugnance 
to  the  world  at  large.  With  an  austerity  free  from  the 
relentless  asceticism  of  Flaubert's  style,  a  sensitiveness  less 
sinuously  feminine  than  that  of  Newman's,  a  classic  ampli- 
tude distinct  from  the  antique  scope  of  Leopardi's,  the  style 
of  Landor  is  so  exclusively  his  own,  uncopied  and  inimita- 
l)le,  that  it  not  only  scarcely  resembles,  but  seldom  even 
momentarily  recalls  any  other. 

Though  essences  so  volatile  as  the  personality  and  the 
voice  of  any  style  worth  analysing  elude  analysis,  yet  various 
remarks  of  Landor's  indicate  his  aim  and  define  some  of 
the  salient  features  of  his  own  style.  "  I  hate,"  he  says, 
''  false  words,  and  seek  with  care,  difficulty,  and  moroseness 
those  that  fit  the  thing."  His  sense  of  the  etymological 
force  and  the  literary  value  of  words,  and  his  skilful  use  of 
a  wide  and  varied  vocabulary  are  foundation  stones  of 
his  style,  which  shows  as  high  a  regard  as  Swift's  for 
"  proper  words  in  proper  places."  /'^uch  discrimination  in 
the  employment  of  them  is  a  natural  result  of  the  intellectual 
faculty  which  determines  also  the  logical  construction,  giving 
to  his  sentences,  even  when  stripped  of  usual  connect-  \^ 
ives,  the  stable  equilibrium  and  close  coherence  of  CJreek 
architecture,  which  stands  without  mortar,  through  sheer 
structural  propriety  in  accordance  with  natural  hvw.^  For 
not  Flaubert  himself  gave  more  solicitous  heed  to  order  and 
proportion,  to  due  distribution  of  emphasis,  to  contour  of 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

sentence.  Many  of  Lander's  sentences  are,  it  is  true,  too 
closely  modelled  on  inflected  Latin  grammatical  forms  for 
perfect  flexibility  in  uninflected  English ;  the  passion  for 
excision  of  the  superfluous  and  for  compactness  leads  often 
to  omission  of  the  requisite,  and  so  to  discontinuity,  abrupt- 
ness, and  even  obscurity.  But  Landor,  unlike  some  writers 
called  obscure,  is  pretty  sure  to  know  his  own  meaning,  how- 
ever little  he  may  sometimes  consider  a  reader's  need  of 
help.  In  such  cases,  then,  the  fundamental  logic  of  con- 
struction may  usually  be  relied  on  to  guide  an  attentive 
reader  through  the  dark  places  to  a  point  of  sympathy 
where  he  can  see  the  beauties.  As  unerring  verbal  fitness 
and  unswaying  structural  firmness  are  masculine  attributes, 
masculine,  too,  are  those  higher  beauties  appropriate  to 
them.  No  characteristic  of  Landor's  style  is  more  marked 
than  the  abounding  wealth  of  picture  words  and  of  fresh 
concrete  imagery- — a  tissue  of  simile  and  of  expressed  or 
implied  metaphor  which  forms  an  integral  part  of  its  sub- 
stance. Sometimes  over-elaborated,  this  figurative  language 
never  degenerates  into  meretricious  or  merely  exterior  adorn- 
ment, but  springs  naturally  from  the  subject,  and  gives  to  the 
stately  pages  which  might  otherwise  seem  formal  and  inert 
the  glow  of  imaginative  life ;  it  has  interpretative  value, 
too,  and  tends  to  lucidity.  /  Rhythmic  modulation  of  parts, 
clause  answering  to  clause,  is  the  crowning  merit,  the  flnal 
\charm,  contenting  the  ear  as  the  structural  adaptation  satis- 
fies the  mind,  and  justifying  Landor's  maxim  that  "  what- 
ever is  rightly  said,  sounds  rightly.";  Those  are,  very  briefly 
stated,  the  main  heads  under  which  the  mechanism  of  the 
style  may  best  be  studied.  The  total  effect  —  so  far,  at  least, 
as  a  few  inexact  adjectives  can  delineate  the  impalpable  — 
is  of  a  regulated  and  succinct  style,  uniform  without  manner- 
ism, at  once  sturdy  and  rich,  euphonious  and  finely  tempered, 
indefeasibly  original  both  in  its  merits  and  in  its  faults  —  a, 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxvu 

Style  which,  even  when  its  kinship  to  Greek  or  to  Latin   is 
closest,  remains  always  intrinsically  English. 

It  is  to  be  understood  that  a  passage  embodying  such 
qualities  as  those  just  mentioned,  turning  up  anywhere 
throughout  Landor's  writings,  is  liable  at  any  point  to  be 
broken  by  a  dull  passage,  for  his  instinct  for  form  and  for 
beauty  by  no  means  invariably  sustains  him  to  the  end  of  a 
long  flight.  Though  visible  logical  structure  is  seldom 
lacking,  true  correlation  of  parts  often  is.  The  musical 
sentence,  "  A  bell  warbles  the  more  melliHuously  in 
the  air  when  the  sound  of  the  stroke  is  over,  and  when 
another  swims  out  from  underneath  it,  and  pants  upon  the 
element  that  gave  it  birth,"  may  easily  win  admiration  and 
nestle  in  the  memory.  Yet  nothing  is  more  frequent  in 
Landor  than  that  just  such  a  lovely  image  should  be  imme- 
diately succeeded  —  as,  in  fact,  this  one  is  —  by  a  compara- 
tively tame  explanation  or  application  of  the  figurativd 
lanauaffe.  The  aim  of  this  volume  is  to  show  the  mosr 
characteristic  traits  of  a  richly  gifted  writer  whose  complete 
works  few  readers  care  to  confront.  For,  though  essentially 
original  in  substance  and  varied  and  charming  in  detail, 
the  work  as  a  whole  is,  if  not  technically,  at  least  in  power 
to  hold  the  attention,  uneven.  Organic  unity  throughout  a  y 
long  composition  was  usually  beyond  Landor's  reach  ;  rare' 
quality  in  short  passages,  or  even  in  passages  of  several 
pages,  he  attains  constantly.  Those  numerous  beautiful 
pages,  detached  and  collected,  though  incompletely  repre- 
senting his  unceasing  literary  activity,  yet  suffice  perma- 
nently to  mark  his  solitary  place  among  the  imaginative 
writers  of  this  century  as  one  of  eminent  distinction. 

Guy  de  Maupassant  draws  a  picture,  tremulous  with 
artistic  conviction  and  personal  quality,  of  the  limitation 
set  by  a  writer's  nature  on  his   work.     Life,  he  says,  no 


xxxviu  INTRODUCTION. 

words  can  depict ;  a  man  can  make  in  words  but  a  partial 
image  of  life  as  he  sees  it,  for  each  one  of  us  is  the  dupe  of 
a  self-generated  illusion.     The  literary  critic's  sole  business 
is,    then,  to  point   out   what   illusion   of  life   possesses   the 
writer  criticised,  and  with  what  success  he  brings  the  reader 
under  its  spell.     Applied  in  a  more  general  sense  than  the 
literary,  this  theory  contains  an  element  of  psychologic  truth 
which  is  strikingly  exemplified  in  the  case  of  Landor,  who 
from  boyhood  to  the  end  of  his  life  rebelled  against  life's 
conditions,   and   never  even   tried   to   learn    the   lesson    of 
submission    to    restraint.      Strong,    noble,    ardent,    sincere, 
generous,  and  high   as  were  his  ideals  of  life  and  art,  he 
saw  life,  at  any  rate,  through  the  smoked  glass  of  his  own 
impetuous  temperament.     That   he  "  strove   with  none  "  is 
palpably    untrue ;     though    it    is    literally    a    fact    that    he 
thought  "none  was  worth  [his]  strife,"  he  was,  in  another 
sense  than   Browning,   "ever  a    fighter."     His    disposition 
was  intractable,  his   imagination    masterful,  his   originality 
scornful.      Impatience    of    control    ended    in    isolating   the 
idealist  of  liberty  from  his  fellows ;  disdain  of  the  common- 
place was  carried  so  far  as  to  repel  sympathy.     Thus  did 
the  imp  of  haughtily  autocratic  self-reliance  sport  with  this 
independent    genius    proudly   trusting    in    his    own   power, 
whose  work  remains  the  lonely  monument  to  a  unique  mix- 
ture  of  elements  in  the  man.      Destitute   of  the   insinuat- 
ingly persuasive    strain  which   was  lacking  in  his  temper, 
but  with  superb  loftiness  of  bearing,  and  severe  beauty  of 
the  type  that  he  most  highly  prized,  Lander's  writing  finds, 
alike  by  its  strength  and  by  its  weakness,  an  analogue  in  his 
character.     Together  with  much  that,  though  characteristic, 
is  not  vital,  he  fashioned,  in  conformity  to  laws  imposed 
only  by  his  own  nature  and  by  the  nature  of  his  material, 
certain  works  of  art  almost  precisely  matching  his  illusion 
of  life. 


DATES. 


1775.      Landor  born  at  Warwick,  January  30. 

17S5.      Ru.tihy. 

1793.     Trinity  College,  Oxford. 

[794.      Rusticated. 

1795.     I'oons. 

1 798.     Gebir. 

1800.     Poems  froiJi  the  Arabic  and  Persian. 

1806.  Siinonidea.  (The  only  copy  is  in  the  Forster  Collection 
at  the  South  Kensington  Museum.) 

1808.      Purchases  Llanthony  Abbey  ;  joins  army  in  Spain. 

1811.     Marries  Julia  Thuillier. 

1 8 1  2.      Count  Julian. 

1815.     Idyllia  nova  qiiinque  Heroi{in  at  que  Heroidiini. 

1820.     Idyllia  Heroica  decent. 

1S24.  Iniaginafy  Conversations  of  Literary  Men  and  States- 
men, vols.  i.  and  ii. 

1828.  Imaginary  Conversations,  etc.,  vol.  iii. 

1829.  \Mlla  Cherardcsca  ;   Imaginary  Conversations,  etc.,  vols.' 

iv.  and  v. 
1S34.      Citation  and  Examination  of  William  Shakespeare,  etc. 

1836.  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 

1837.  Phe  Pentanieron  and  Pentalogia. 

1839.     Andrea  of  Hungary,  and  Giovanna  of  Naples. 
1 84 1.      Fra  Rupert. 

1846.  Collected  Edition  of  Works,  including  Hellenics. 

1847.  Poemata  et  Inscriptiones.      The  Hellenics,  enlarged  and 

completed. 
1853.     Imaginary  Conversations  of  Greeks  and  Romans.      The 

Last  Fruit  off  an  Old  Tree. 
1859.      The  Hellenics.     New  edition,  enlarged. 

1863.  Heroic  Idyls,  with  additional  Poems. 

1864.  Dies  in  F'lorence,  September  17. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   LANDOR. 


I  claim  no  place  in  the  world  of  letters;    I  am  alone;   and  will  be 

alone,  as  long  as  I  live,  and  after. 

Landur. 


...  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 

We  find  none  like  thee. 

Swinburne. 


SELECTIONS    FROM   LANDOR. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 


I. 
ACHILLES    AND    HELENA. 

Helena.  Where  am  I .''  Desert  me  not,  O  ye  blessed  from 
above !  ye  twain  who  brought  me  hither  ! 

Was  it  a  dream  ? 

Stranger!  thou  seemest  thoughtful;  couldst  thou  answer 
me?     Why  so  silent?     I  beseech  and  implore  thee,  speak. 

Achilles.  Neither  thy  feet  nor  tiie  feet  of  mules  have 
borne  thee  where  thou  standest.  Whether  in  the  hour  of 
departing  sleep,  or  at  what  hour  of  the  morning,  I  know 
not,  O  Helena  !  but  Aphrodite  and  Theti§,  inclining  to  my 
prayer,  have,  as  thou  art  conscious,  led  thee  into  these 
solitudes.  To  me  also  have  they  shown  the  way,  that  I 
might  behold  the  pride  of  Sparta,  the  marvel  of  the  earth, 
and  —  how  my  heart  swells  and  agonizes  at  the  thought !  — 
the  cause  of  innumerable  woes  to  Hellas. 

Helena.  Stranger!  thou  art  indeed  one  whom  the  god- 
desses or  gods  might  lead,  and  glory  in;  such  is  thy  stature, 
thy  voice,  and  thy  demeanour ;  but  who,  if  earthly,  art  thou? 

Achilles.  Before  thee,  O  Helena  !  stands  Achilles,  son  of 
Peleus.  Tremble  not,  turn  not  pale,  bend  not  thy  knees,  O 
Helena! 


4  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Helena.  Spare  me,  thou  goddess-born  !  thou  cherished 
and  only  son  of  silver-footed  Thetis!  Chryseis  and  Briseis 
ought  to  soften  and  content  thy  heart.  Lead  not  me  also 
into  captivity.  Woes  too  surely  have  I  brought  down  on 
Hellas  ;  but  woes  have  been  mine  alike,  and  will  for  ever 
be. 

Achilles.  Daughter  of  Zeus  !  what  word  hast  thou  spoken  ! 
Chryseis,  child  of  the  aged  priest  who  performs  in  this  land 
due  sacrifices  to  Apollo,  fell  to  the  lot  of  another;  an  inso- 
lent and  unworthy  man,  who  hath  already  brought  more  sor- 
rows upon  our  people  than  thou  hast ;  so  that  dogs  and 
vultures  prey  on  the  brave  who  sank  without  a  wound, 
liriseis  is  indeed  mine;  the  lovely  and  dutiful  Briseis.  He, 
unjust  and  contumelious,  proud  at  once  and  base,  would 
tear  her  from  me.  But,  gods  above  !  in  what  region  has  the 
wolf  with  impunity  dared  to  seize  upon  the  kid  which  the 
lion  hath  taken  ? 

Talk  not  of  being  led  into  servitude.  Could  mortal  be 
guilty  of  such  impiety .''  Hath  it  never  thundered  on  these 
mountain-heads?  Doth  Zeus,  the  wide-seeing,  see  all  the 
earth  but  Ida?  doth  he  watch  over  all  but  his  own?  Capa- 
neus  and  Typhoeus  less  offended  him,  than  would  the 
wretch  whose  grasp  should  violate  the  golden  hair  of 
Helena.  And  dost  thou  still  tremble?  irresolute  and  dis- 
trustful ! 

Helena.     I  must  tremble  ;   and  more  and  more. 

Achilles.     Take  my  hand:   be  confident;   be  comforted. 

Helena.  May  I  take  it  ?  may  I  hold  it  ?  I  am  com- 
forted. 

Achilles.  The  scene  around  us,  calm  and  silent  as  the 
sky  itself,  tranquillizes  thee ;  and  so  it  ought.  Turnest 
thou  to  survey  it?  perhaps  it  is  unknown  to  thee. 

Helena.  Truly;  for  since  my  arrival  1  have  never  gone 
beyond  the  walls  of  the  city. 


ACHILLES   AND   HELENA.  5 

Achilles.  Look  then  around  thee  freely,  perplexed  no 
longer.  Pleasant  is  this  level  eminence,  surrounded  by 
broom  and  myrtle,  and  crisp-leaved  beech  and  broad 
dark  pine  above.  Pleasant  the  short  slender  grass,  bent 
by  insects  as  they  alight  on  it  or  climb  along  it,  and  shin- 
ing up  into  our  eyes,  interrupted  by  tall  sisterhoods  of 
gray  lavender,  and  by  dark-eyed  cistus,  and  by  lightsome 
citisus,  and  by  little  troops  of  serpolet  running  in  disorder 
here  and  there. 

Helena.  Wonderful !  how  didst  thou  ever  learn  to  name 
so  many  plants? 

Achilles.  Chiron  taught  me  them,  when  I  walked  at 
his  side  while  he  was  culling  herbs  for  the  benefit  of  his 
brethren.  All  these  he  taught  me,  and  at  least  twenty 
more;  for  wondrous  was  his  wisdom,  boundless  his  knowl- 
edge, and  I  was  proud  to  learn. 

Ah,  look  again  !  look  at  those  little  yellow  poppies;  they 
appear  to  be  just  come  out  to  catch  all  that  the  sun  will 
throw  into  their  cups :  they  appear  in  their  joyance  and 
incipient  dance  to  call  upon  the  lyre  to  sing  among 
them. 

Heleiia.  Childish  !  for  one  with  such  a  spear  against 
his  shoulder ;  terrific  even  its  shadow :  it  seems  to  make 
a  chasm  across  the  plain. 

Achilles.  To  talk  or  to  think  like  a  child  is  not  always  a 
proof  of  folly:  it  may  sometimes  push  aside  heavy  griefs 
where  the  strength  of  wisdom  fails.  What  art  thou  pon- 
dering, Helena? 

Helena.  Recollecting  the  names  of  the  plants.  Several 
of  them  I  do  believe  I  had  heard  before,  but  had  quite 
forgotten  ;   my  memory  will  be  better  now. 

Achilles.      Better  now?  in  the  midst  of  war  and  tumult? 

Helena.  I  am  sure  it  will  be,  for  didst  thou  not  say 
that  Chiron  tauHit  them  ? 


6  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Achilles.  He  sang  to  me  over  the  lyre  the  lives  of 
Narcissus  and  Hyacynthus,  brought  back  by  the  beau- 
tiful Hours,  of  silent  unwearied  feet,  regular  as  the  stars  in 
their  courses.  Many  of  the  trees  and  bright-eyed  flowers 
once  lived  and  moved,  and  spoke  as  we  are  speaking. 
They  may  yet  have  memories,  although  they  have  cares  no 
longer. 

Helena.  Ah!  then  they  have  no  memories;  and  they  see 
their  own  beauty  only. 

Achilles.     Helena  !  thou  turnest  pale,  and  droopest. 

Helena.  The  odour  of  the  blossoms,  or  of  the  gums,  or 
the  height  of  the  place,  or  something  else,  makes  me  dizzy. 
Can  it  be  the  wind  in  my  ears  ? 

Achilles.     There  is  none. 

Helena.     I  could  wish  there  were  a  little. 

Achilles.     Be  seated,  O  Helena ! 

Helena.  The  feeble  are  obedient ;  the  weary  may  rest 
even  in  the  presence  of  the  powerful. 

Achilles.  On  this  very  ground  where  we  are  now  repos- 
ing, they  who  conducted  us  hither  told  ine,  the  fatal  prize 
of  beauty  was  awarded.  One  of  them  smiled  ;  the  other, 
whom  in  duty  I  love  the  most,  looked  anxious,  and  let  fall 
some  tears. 

Helena.     Yet  she  was  not  one  of  the  vanquished. 

Achilles.     Goddesses  contended  for  it ;   Helena  was  afar. 

Hcletia.     Fatal  was  the  decision  of  the  arbiter ! 

But  could  not  the  venerable  Peleus,  nor  Pyrrhus  the  in- 
fant so  beautiful  and  so  helpless,  detain  thee,  O  Achilles, 
from  this  sad,  sad  war.'' 

Achilles.  No  reverence  or  kindness  for  the  race  of  Atreus 
brought  me  against  Troy  :  I  detest  and  abhor  both  brothers  ; 
but  another  man  is  more  hateful  to  me  still.  Forbear  we 
to  name  him.  'J'he  valiant,  holding  the  hearth  as  sacred 
as  tJic  temple,  is  never  a  violator  of  hospitality.     He  carries 


ACHILLES  AND   HELENA.  7 

not  away  the  gold  he  rinds  in  the  house  ;  he  folds  not  up 
the  purple  linen  worked  for  solemnities,  about  to  convey  it 
from  the  cedar  chest  to  the  dark  ship,  together  with  the 
wife  confided  to  his  protection  in  her  husband's  absence, 
and  sitting  close  and  expectant  by  the  altar  of  the  gods. 

It  was  no  merit  in  Menelaiis  to  love  thee ;  it  was  a 
crime  in  another —  I  will  not  say  to  love,  for  even  Priam  or 
Nestor  miglit  love  thee  —  but  to  avow  it,  and  act  on  the 
avowal. 

Helena.  Menelaiis,  it  is  true,  was  fond  of  me,  when  Paris 
was  sent  by  Aphrodite  to  our  house.  It  would  have  been 
very  wrong  to  break  my  vow  to  Menelaiis ;  but  Aphrodite 
urged  me  by  day  and  by  night,  telling  me  that  to  make  her 
break  hers  to  Paris  would  be  quite  inexpiable.  She  told 
Paris  the  same  thing  at  the  same  hour  ;  and  as  often.  He 
repeated  it  to  me  every  morning:  his  dreams  tallied  with 
mine  exactly.     At  last^ — 

Ac/ii/Ies.  The  last  is  not  yet  come.  Helena,  by  the 
Immortals !  if  ever  I  meet  him  in  battle  I  transfix  him  with 
this  spear. 

Helena.  Pray  do  not.  Aphrodite  would  be  angry  and 
never  forgive  thee. 

Achilles.  1  am  not  sure  of  that  ;  she  soon  pardons. 
Variable  as  Iris,  one  day  she  favours  and  the  next  day 
she  forsakes. 

Helena.     She  may  then  forsake  me. 

Achilles.  Other  deities,  ()  Helena,  watch  over  and  protect 
thee.  Thy  two  brave  brothers  are  with  those  deities  now, 
and  never  are  absent  from  their  higher  festivals. 

HeleJia.  They  could  protect  me  were  they  living,  and  they 
would.     Oh  that  thou  couldsl  but  have  seen  them ! 

Achilles.  Companions  of  my  father  on  the  borders  of  the 
Phasis,  they  became  his  guests  before  they  went  all  three 
to  hunt  the  boar  in  the  brakes  of  Kalydon.     Thence  too  the 


8  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

beauty  of  a  woman  brought  many  sorrows  into  brave  men's 
breasts,  and  caused  many  tears  to  hang  long  and  heavily  on 
the  eyelashes  of  matrons. 

Helena.      Horrible  creatures  !  —  boars  I  mean. 

Didst  thou  indeed  see  my  brothers  at  that  season?  Yes, 
certainly. 

Achilles.  I  saw  them  not,  desirous  though  I  always  was 
of  seeing  them,  that  I  might  have  learned  from  them,  and 
might  have  practised  with  them,  whatever  is  laudable  and 
manly.  But  my  father,  fearing  my  impetuosity,  as  he  said, 
and  my  inexperience,  sent  me  away.  Soothsayers  had 
foretold  some  mischief  to  me  from  an  arrow  :  and  among 
the  brakes  many  arrows  might  fly  wide,  glancing  from 
trees. 

Helena.  I  wish  thou  hadst  seen  them,  were  it  only  once. 
Three  such  youths  together  the  blessed  sun  will  never  shine 
upon  again. 

O  my  sweet  brothers!  how  they  tended  me!  how  they 
loved  me !  how  often  they  wished  me  to  mount  their 
horses  and  to  hurl  their  javelins  !  They  could  only  teach 
me  to  swim  with  them;  and  when  I  had  well  learned  it 
I  was  more  afraid  than  at  first.  It  gratified  me  to  be 
praised  for  anything  but  swimming. 

Happy,  happy  hours  !  soon  over!  Does  happiness  always 
go  away  before  beauty?  It  must  go  then:  surely  it  might 
stay  that  little  while.  Alas  !  dear  Kastor!  and  dearer  Poly- 
deukes  I  often  shall  I  think  of  you  as  ye  were  (and  oh  !  as  I 
was)  on  the  banks  of  the  Eurotas. 

Brave,  noble  creatures !  they  were  as  tall,  as  terrible,  and 
almost  as  beautiful,  as  thou  art.  Be  not  wroth !  Blush  no 
more  for  me ! 

Achilles.  Helena!  Helena!  wife  of  Menelaiis !  my 
mother  is  reported  to  have  left  about  me  only  one  place 
vulnerable:    I  have  at  last  found  where  it  is.      Farewell  ! 


AiSOP  AND   RIIODOri:.  9 

Helena.  Oh  leave  me  not !  Earnestly  I  entreat  and 
implore  thee,  leave  me  not  alone !  These  solitudes  are 
terrible :  there  must  be  wild  beasts  among  them  ;  there 
certainly  are  Fauns  and  Satyrs.  And  there  is  Cybele,  who 
carries  towers  and  temples  on  her  head  ;  who  hates  and 
abhors  Aphrodite,  who  persecutes  those  she  favours,  and 
whose  priests  are  so  cruel  as  to  be  cruel  even  to  themselves. 

Achates.  According  to  their  promise,  the  goddesses  who 
brought  thee  hither  in  a  cloud  will  in  a  cloud  reconduct 
thee,  safely  and  unseen,  into  the  city. 

Again,  O  daughter  of  Leda  and  of  Zeus,  farewell ! 

II. 

^SOP   AND    RHODOPfe. 

Rhodope.  You  perplex  me  exceedingly  ;  but  I  would  not 
disquiet  you  at  present  with  more  questions.  I^et  me  pause 
and  consider  a  little,  if  you  please.  I  begin  to  suspect  that, 
as  gods  formerly  did,  you  have  been  turning  men  into  beasts, 
and  beasts  into  men.  JJut,  yEsop,  you  should  never  say  the 
thing  that  is  untrue. 

Aisop.     We  say  and  do  and  look  no  other  all  our  lives. 

Rhoiiope.     Do  we  never  know  better  ? 

j^sop.  Yes ;  when  we  cease  to  please,  and  to  wish  it  ; 
when  death  is  settling  the  features,  and  the  cerements  are 
ready  to  render  them  unchangeable. 

Rhodope.     Alas  !  alas  ! 

yEsop.  Breathe,  Rhodope  !  breathe  again  those  painless 
sighs  :  they  belong  to  thy  vernal  sea.son.  May  thy  summer 
of  life  be  calm,  thy  autumn  calmer,  and  tliy  winter  never 
come  ! 

RhoJopc.      I  must  die  then  earlier. 

^sop.  Laodameia  died  ;  Helen  died  ;  Leda,  the  beloved 
of  Jupiter,  went  before.     It  is  better  to  repose  in  the  earth 


10  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

betimes  than  to  sit  up  late  ;  better,  than  to  cHng  pertina- 
ciously to  what  we  feel  crumbling  under  us,  and  to  protract 
an  inevitable  fall.  We  may  enjoy  the  present  while  we  are 
insensible  of  intirmity  and  decay  :  but  the  present,  like  a 
note  of  music,  is  nothing  but  as  it  appertains  to  what  is 
past  and  what  is  to  come.  There  are  no  fields  of  amaranth 
on  this  side  of  the  grave  ;  there  are  no  voices,  O  Rhodope, 
that  are  not  soon  mute,  however  tuneful ;  there  is  no  name, 
with  whatever  emphasis  of  passionate  love  repeated,  of 
which  the  echo  is  not  faint  at  hist. 

Khodopc.  O  ^-l^sop !  let  me  rest  my  head  on  yours  :  it 
throbs  and  pains  me. 

ALsop.     What  are  these  ideas  to  thee  ? 

Rhodope.      Sad,  sorrowful. 

yEsop.  Harrows  that  break  tlie  soil,  preparing  it  for 
wisdom.  Many  flowers  must  perish  ere  a  grain  of  corn  be 
ripened.  And  now  remove  thy  head  :  the  cheek  is  cool 
enough  after  its  little  shower  of  tears. 

Rhoiiope.     How  impatient  you  are  of  the  least  pressure  ! 

yEsop.  There  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  support  imper- 
turbably  as  the  head  of  a  lovely  girl,  except  her  grief.  Again 
upon  mine,  forgetful  one  !  Raise  it,  remove  it,  I  say!  Why 
wert  thou  reluctant  ?  why  wert  thou  disobedient  ?  Nay, 
look  not  so.  It  is  1  (and  th(ju  shalt  know  it)  who  should 
look  reproachfully. 

Rhodope.  Reproachfully  ?  did  I  ?  I  was  only  wishing 
you  would  love  me  better,  that  I  might  come  and  see  you 
often. 

yEsop.  Come  often  and  see  me,  if  thou  wilt  ;  but  expect 
no  love  from  me. 

Rhodope.  Yet  how  gently  and  gracefully  you  have  spoken 
and  acted,  all  the  time  we  have  been  together.  You  have 
rendered  the  most  abstruse  things  intelligible,  without  once 
grasping  my  hand,  or  putting  your  fingers  among  my  curls. 


^SOr  AND  RHODOP^.  '      11 

y^sop.  I  should  have  feared  to  encounter  the  displeasure 
of  two  persons  if  I  had. 

Khodope.  And  well  you  might.  They  would  scourge  you, 
and  scold  me. 

yEsop.     That  is  not  the  worst. 

Rhodope.     The  stocks  too,  perhaps. 

y^sop.     All  these  are  small  matters  to  the  slave. 

Khodope.  If  they  befell  you,  I  would  tear  my  hair  and 
my  cheeks,  and  put  my  knees  under  your  ancles.  Of  whom 
should  you  have  been  afraid .-' 

y^sop.  Of  Rhodope  and  of  yEsop.  Modesty  in  man,  O 
Rhodope,  is  perhaps  the  rarest  and  most  difficult  of  virtues  : 
but  intolerable  pain  is  the  pursuer  of  its  infringement.  Then 
follow  days  without  content,  nights  without  sleep,  through- 
out a  stormy  season  ;  a  season  of  impetuous  deluge  which 
no  fertility  succeeds. 

Rhodope.  My  mother  often  told  me  to  learn  modesty, 
when  I  was  at  play  among  the  boys. 

yEsop.  Modesty  in  girls  is  not  an  acquirement,  but  a 
gift  of  nature ;  and  it  costs  as  much  trouble  and  pain  in  the 
possessor  to  eradicate,  as  the  fullest  and  firmest  lock  of  hair 
would  do. 

Rhodope.  Never  shall  I  be  induced  to  believe  that  men 
at  all  value  it  in  themselves,  or  much  in  us;  although  from 
idleness  or  from  rancour  they  would  take  it  away  from  us 
whenever  they  can. 

y^sop.  And  very  few  of  you  are  pertinacious  :  if  you  run 
after  them,  as  you  often  do,  it  is  not  to  get  it  back. 

Rhodope.  I  would  never  run  after  any  one,  not  even  you; 
I  would  only  ask  you,  again  and  again,  to  love  me. 

y^sop.  Expect  no  love  from  me.  I  will  impart  to  thee 
all  my  wisdom,  such  as  it  is  :  but  girls  like  our  folly  best. 
Thou  shalt  never  get  a  particle  of  mine  from  me. 

Rhodope.     Is  love  foolish  ? 


12  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

j^sop.  At  thy  age  and  at  mine.  I  do  not  love  thee:  if 
I  did,  I  would  the  more  forbid  thee  ever  to  love  me. 

Rhodope.     Strange  man  ! 

ySsop.  Strange,  indeed  !  When  a  traveller  is  about  to 
wander  on  a  desert,  it  is  strange  to  lead  him  away  from  it; 
strange  to  point  out  to  him  the  verdant  path  he  should 
pursue,  where  the  tamarisk  and  lentisk  and  acacia  wave 
overhead,  where  the  reseda  is  cool  and  tender  to  the  foot 
that  presses  it,  and  where  a  thousand  colours  sparkle  in  the 
sunshine,  on  fountains  incessantly  gushing  forth. 

Rhodope.  Xanthus  has  all  these;  and  I  could  be  amid 
them  in  a  moment. 

yHsop.     Why  art  not  thou  ? 

Rhodope.  I  know  not  exactly.  Another  day  perhaps. 
I  am  afraid  of  snakes  this  morning.  Beside,  I  think  it  may 
be  sultry  out  of  doors.  Does  not  the  wind  blow  from 
Libya? 

Aisop.  It  blows  as  it  did  yesterday  when  I  came  over, 
fresh  across  the  yEgean,  and  from  Thrace.  Thou  mayest 
venture  into  the  morning  air. 

Rhodope.  No  hours  are  so  adapted  to  study  as  those  of 
the  morning.  But  will  you  teach  me  ?  I  shall  so  love  you 
if  you  will. 

yEsop.     If  thou  wilt  not  love  me,  I  will  teach  thee. 

Rhodope.      Unreasonable  man  ! 

yEsop.  Art  thou  aware  what  those  mischievous  little 
hands  are  doing? 

Rhodope.  They  are  tearing  ofif  the  golden  hem  from  the 
bottom  of  my  robe;   but  it  is  stiff  and  difficult  to  detach. 

yJisop.      Why  tear  it  off  ? 

Rhodope.  To  buy  your  freedom.  Do  you  spring  up,  and 
turn  away,  and  cover  your  face  from  me  ? 

yEsop.  My  freedom  !  (io,  Rhodope  !  Rhodope !  This, 
of  all  things,  I  shall  never  owe  to  thee. 


yESOr   AND   KIIODOPIl.  13 

Rhodopc.  Proud  man  !  and  you  tell  me  to  go,  do  you? 
do  you  ?     Answer  me  ;it  least !      Must  I  ?  and  so  soon  ? 

yEsop.     Child  !    begone  ! 

Rhodopc.  O  .  l^sop  !  you  are  already  more  my  master 
than  Xanthus  is.  1  will  run  and  tell  him  so  ;  and  I  will 
implore  of  him,  upon  my  knees,  never  to  impose  on  you  a 
command  so  hard  to  obey. 


yEsop.  Recollect  a  little.  I  can  be  patient  with  this 
hand  in  mine. 

Rhodopc.  I  am  not  certain  that  yours  is  a)iy  help  to 
recollection. 

yEsop.     Shall   1  remove  it? 

Rhodopc.  O  !  now  I  think  I  can  recall  the  whole  story. 
What  did  you  say?  did  you  ask  any  question? 

^sop.     None,  excepting  what  thou  hast  answered. 

Rhodopc.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  morning  when  my 
father,  sitting  in  the  coolest  part  of  the  house,  exchanged 
his  last  measure  of  grain  for  a  chlamys  of  scarlet  cloth 
fringed  with  silver.  He  watched  the  merchant  out  of  the 
door,  and  then  looked  wistfully  into  the  corn-chest.  1,  who 
thought  there  was  something  worth  seeing,  looked  in  also, 
and,  finding  it  empty,  expressed  my  disappointment,  not 
thinking  however  about  the  corn.  A  faint  and  transient 
smile  came  over  his  countenance  at  the  sight  of  mine.  He 
unfolded  the  chlamys,  stretched  it  out  with  both  hands 
before  me,  and  then  cast  it  over  my  shoulders.  I  looked 
down  on  the  glittering  fringe  and  screamed  with  joy.  He 
then  went  out ;  and  I  know  not  what  flowers  he  gathered, 
but  he  gathered  many ;  and  some  he  placed  in  my  bosom, 
and  some  in  my  hair.  But  I  told  him  with  captious  pride, 
first  that  I  could  arrange  them  better,  and  again  that  I 
would  have  only  the  white.     However,  when  he  had  selected 


14  IMAGIXARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

all  ihe  white,  and  1  had  placed  a  few  of  them  according  to 
my  fancy,  I  told  him  (rising  in  my  slipper)  he  might  crown 
me  with  the  remainder.  The  splendour  of  my  apparel  gave 
me  a  sensation  of  authority.  Soon  as  the  Howers  had  taken 
their  station  on  my  head,  1  expressed  a  dignified  satisfaction 
at  the  taste  displayed  by  my  father,  just  as  if  I  could  have 
seen  how  they  appeared!  But  he  knew  that  there  was  at 
least  as  much  pleasure  as  pride  in  it,  and  perhaps  we  divided 
the  latter  (alas  !  not  both)  pretty  equally.  He  now  took  me 
into  the  market  place,  where  a  concourse  of  people  was 
waiting  for  the  purchase  of  slaves.  Merchants  came  and 
looked  at  me;  some  commending,  others  disparaging;  but 
all  agreeing  that  I  was  slender  and  delicate,  that  I  could  not 
live  long,  and  that  I  should  give  much  trouble.  Many  would 
have  bought  the  chlamys,  but  there  was  something  less  sale- 
able in  the  child  and  flowers. 

y^sop.  Had  thy  features  been  coarse  and  thy  voice  rustic, 
they  would  all  have  patted  thy  cheeks  and  found  no  fault 
in  thee. 

Rhodope.  As  it  was,  every  one  had  bought  exactly  such 
another  in  time  past,  and  been  a  loser  by  it.  At  these 
speeches  I  perceived  the  flowers  tremble  slightly  on  my 
bosom,  from  my  father's  agitation.  Although  he  scoffed  at 
them,  knowing  my  healthiness,  he  was  troubled  internally, 
and  said  many  short  prayers,  not  very  unlike  imprecations, 
turning  his  head  aside.  Proud  was  1,  prouder  than  ever, 
when  at  last  several  talents  were  offered  for  me,  and  by  the 
very  man  who  in  the  beginning  had  undervalued  me  the 
most,  and  prophesied  the  worst  of  me.  My  father  scowled 
at  him,  and  refused  the  money.  1  thought  he  was  playing 
a  game,  and  began  to  wonder  what  it  could  be,  since  I  never 
had  seen  it  played  before.  Then  I  fancied  it  might  be 
some  celebration  because  plenty  had  returned  to  the  city, 
insomuch  that  my  father  had  bartered  the  last  of  the  corn 


yESOP   AND   RHODOPE.  15 

he  hoarded.  1  i;ie\v  more  and  more  delighted  at  the  sport. 
l!ut  soon  there  advanced  an  elderly  man,  wlio  .said  gravely,  , 
"Thou  hast  stolen  this  child:  her  vesture  alone  is  worth 
above  a  hundred  drachmas.  Carry  her  home  again  to  her 
parents,  and  do  it  directly,  or  Nemesis  and  the  Eumenides 
will  overtake  thee."  Knowing  the  estimation  in  which  my 
father  had  always  been  holden  by  his  fellow-citizens,  1 
laughed  again,  and  pinched  his  ear.  He,  although  naturally 
choleric,  burst  forth  into  no  resentment  at  these  reproaches, 
but  said  calmly,  "  I  think  I  know  thee  by  name,  O  guest! 
Surely  thou  art  Xanthus  the  Samian.  Deliver  this  child 
from  famine." 

Again  I  laughed  aloud  and  heartily ;  and,  thinking  it  was 
now  my  part  of  the  game,  1  held  out  both  my  arms  and  pro- 
trude*d  my  whole  body  towards  the  stranger.  He  would  not 
receive  me  from  my  father's  neck,  but  he  asked  me  with 
benignity  and  solicitude  if  I  was  hungry  ;  at  which  I  laughed 
again,  and  more  than  ever:  for  it  was  early  in  the  morning, 
soon  after  the  first  meal,  and  my  father  had  nourished  me 
most  carefully  and  plentifully  in  all  the  days  of  the  famine. 
But  Xanthus,  waiting  for  no  answer,  took  out  of  a  sack, 
which  one  of  his  slaves  carried  at  his  side,  a  cake  of  wheaten 
bread  and  a  piece  of  honey-comb,  and  gave  them  to  me.  I 
held  the  honey-comb  to  my  father's  mouth,  thinking  it  the 
most  of  a  dainty.  He  dashed  it  to  the  ground;  but,  seizing 
the  bread,  he  began  to  devour  it  ferociously.  This  also  I 
thought  was  in  play;  and  I  clapped  my  hands  at  his  distor- 
tions. But  Xanthus  looked  on  him  like  one  afraid,  and 
smote  the  cake  from  him,  crying  aloud,  "  Name  the  price." 
My  father  now  placed  me  in  his  arms,  naming  a  price  much 
below  what  the  other  had  offered,  saying,  "The  gods  are 
ever  with  thee,  O  Xanthus  !  therefore  to  thee  do  I  consign 
my  child."  But  while  Xanthus  was  counting  out  the  silver, 
my  father  seized  the  cake  again,  which  the  slave  had  taken 


16  IMAGINARY   CONVEKSATJONS. 

up  and  was  about  to  replace  in  the  wallet.  His  hunger  was 
exasperated  by  the  taste  and  the  delay.  Suddenly  there  arose 
much  tumult.  Turning  round  in  the  old  woman's  bosom 
who  had  received  me  from  Xanthus,  I  saw  my  beloved  father 
struggling  on  the  ground,  livid  and  speechless.  The  more 
violent  my  cries,  the  more  rapidly  they  hurried  me  away ; 
and  many  were  soon  between  us.  Little  was  I  suspicious 
that  he  had  suffered  the  pangs  of  famine  long  before  :  alas ! 
and  he  had  suffered  them  for  me.  Do  I  weep  while  I  am 
telling  you  they  ended?  I  could  not  have  closed  his  eyes; 
1  was  too  young:  but  I  might  have  received  his  last  breath, 
the  only  comfort  of  an  orphan's  bosom.  Do  you  now  think 
him  blamable,  O  ^sop  .^ 

^sop.  It  was  sublime  humanity  :  it  was  forbearance  and 
self-denial  which  even  the  immortal  gods  have  never  shown 
us.  He  could  endure  to  perish  by  those  torments  which 
alone  are  both  acute  and  slow  ;  he  could  number  the  steps 
of  death  and  miss  not  one:  but  he  could  never  see  thy  tears, 
nor  let  thee  see  his.  ()  weakness  above  all  fortitude ! 
Glory  to  the  man  who  rather  bears  a  grief  corroding  his 
breast,  than  permits  it  to  prowl  beyond,  and  to  prey  on  the 
tender  and  compassionate!  Women  commiserate  tlie  brave, 
and  men  the  beautiful.  The  dominion  of  Pity  has  usually 
this  extent,  no  wider.  Thy  father  was  exposed  to  the  obloquy 
not  only  of  the  malicious,  but  also  of  the  ignorant  and 
thoughtless,  who  condemn  in  the  unfortunate  what  they  ap- 
I  plaud  in  the  prosperous.  'I'here  is  no  shame  in  poverty  or 
in  slavery,  if  we  neither  make  ourselves  poor  by  our  improvi- 
idence  nor  .slaves  by  our  venality.  The  lowest  and  highest 
t)f  the  human  race  are  .sold:  most  of  the  intermediate  are 
also  slaves,  but  sl:ives  who  bring  no  money  in  the  market. 

Rhodopc.     Surely  the  great  and  powerful  are  never  to  be 
purchased,  are  they? 

ylisop.      It  may  be  a  defect  in  my  vision,  but  I  cannot  see 


^SOP  AND   RHODOFk.  17 

greatness  on  the  earth.  What  they  tell  me  is  great  and 
aspiring,  to  me  seems  little  and  crawling.  Let  me  meet  thy 
question  with  another.  What  monarch  gives  his  daughter 
for  nothing?  Either  he  receives  stone  walls  and  unwilling 
cities  in  return,  or  he  barters  her  for  a  parcel  of  spears  and 
horses  and  horsemen,  waving  away  from  his  declining  and 
helpless  age  young  joyous  life,  and  trampling  down  the  fresh- 
est and  the  sweetest  memories.  Midas  in  the  height  of 
prosperity  would  have  given  his  daughter  to  Lycaon,  rather 
than  to  the  gentlest,  the  most  virtuous,  the  most  intelligent 
of  his  subjects.  Thy  father  threw  wealth  aside,  and,  placing 
thee  under  the  protection  of  Virtue,  rose  up  from  the  house 
of  Famine  to  partake  in  the  festivals  of  the  gods. 

Release  my  neck,  O  Rhodope  !  for  I  have  other  questions 
to  ask  of  thee  about  him. 

Rliodopl'.  To  hear  thee  converse  on  him  in  such  a  manner, 
I  can  do  even  that. 

yEsop.  J]efore  the  day  of  separation  was  he  never  sorrow- 
ful ?  Did  he  never  by  tears  or  silence  reveal  the  secret  of 
his  soul  ? 

Rhodope.  I  was  too  infantine  to  perceive  or  imagine  his 
intention.  The  night  before  I  became  the  slave  of  Xanthus, 
he  sat  on  the  edge  of  my  bed.  I  pretended  to  be  asleep: 
he  moved  away  silently  and  softly.  I  saw  him  collect  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand  the  crumbs  I  had  wasted  on  the  floor, 
and  then  eat  them,  and  then  look  if  any  were  remaining. 
1  thought  he  did  so  out  of  fondness  for  me,  remembering 
that,  even  before  the  famine,  he  had  often  swept  up  off  the 
table  the  bread  I  had  broken,  and  had  made  me  put  it  be- 
tween his  lips.      I  would  not  dissemble  very  long,  but  said, — 

"  Come,  now  you  have  wakened  me,  you  must  sing  me 
asleep  again,  as  you  did  when  I  was  little." 

He  smiled  faintly  at  this,  and,  after  some  delay,  when  he 
had  walked  up  and  down  the  chamber,  thus  began:  — 


IS  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

"  I  will  sing  to  thee  one  song  more,  my  wakeful  Rhodope! 
my  chirping  bird  !  over  whom  is  no  mother's  wing!  That 
it  may  lull  thee  asleep,  I  will  celebrate  no  longer,  as  in  the 
days  of  wine  and  plenteousness,  the  glory  of  Mars,  guiding 
in  their  invisibly  rapid  onset  the  dappled  steeds  of  Rhasus, 
What  hast  thou  to  do,  my  little  one,  with  arrows  tired  of 
clustering  in  the  quiver?  How  much  quieter  is  thy  pallet 
than  the  tents  which  whitened  the  plain  of  Simois?  What 
knowest  thou  about  the  river  Eurotas  ?  What  knowest  thou 
about  its  ancient  palace,  once  trodden  by  assembled  gods, 
and  then  polluted  by  the  Phrygian?  What  knowest  thou  of 
perfidious  men  or  of  sanguinary  deeds? 

'•  Pardon  me,  O  goddess  who  presidest  in  Cythera !  I  am 
not  irreverent  to  thee,  but  ever  grateful.  May  she  upon 
whose  brow  1  lay  my  hand  praise  and  bless  thee  for  ever- 
more ! 

*' Ah  yes  !  continue  to  hold  up  above  the  coverlet  those 
fresh  and  rosy  palms  clasped  together:  her  benefits  have 
descended  on  thy  beauteous  head,  my  child!  The  Fates 
also  have  sung,  beyond  thy  hearing,  of  pleasanter  scenes 
than  snow-fed  Hebrus;  of  more  than  dim  grottoes  and  sky- 
bright  waters.  Even  now  a  low  murmur  swells  upward  to 
my  ear:  and  not  from  the  spindle  comes  the  sound,  but 
from  those  who  sing  slowly  over  it,  bending  all  tiiree  their 
tremulous  heads  together.  I  wish  thou  could'st  hear  it; 
for  seldom  are  their  voices  so  sweet.  Thy  pillow  intercepts 
the  song  perhaps:  lie  down  again,  lie  down,  my  Rhodope! 
I  will  repeat  what  they  are  saying:  — 

"•'  Happier  shalt  thou  be,  nor  less  glorious,  than  even  she, 
the  truly  beloved,  for  whose  return  to  the  distaff  and  the 
lyre  the  portals  of  Ta,'narus  flew  open.  In  the  woody  dells 
of  Ismarus,  and  when  she  bathed  among  the  swans  of  Stry- 
mon,  the  nymphs  called  her  Eurydice.  Thou  shalt  behold 
that  fairest  and  that  fondest  one  hereafter.     But  first  thou 


TIBERIUS  AND   VIPSANIA.  19 

must  go  unto  the  land  of  the  lotos,  where  famine  never 
Cometh,  and  where  alone  the  works  of  man  are  immortal.' 

"O  my  child!  the  undeceiving  Fates  have  uttered  this. 
Other  powers  have  visited  me,  and  have  strengthened  my 
heart  with  dreams  and  visions.  We  shall  meet  again,  my 
Rhodope  !  in  shady  groves  and  verdant  meadows,  and  we 
shall  sit  by  the  side  of  those  who  loved  us." 

He  was  rising :  I  threw  my  arms  about  his  neck,  and,  be- 
fore I  would  let  him  go,  I  made  him  promise  to  place  me, 
not  by  the  side,  but  between  them  ;  for  1  thought  of  her  who 
had  left  us.     At  that  time  there  were  but  two,  O  ^'Esop  1 

You  ponder  :  you  are  about  to  reprove  my  assurance  in 
having  thus  repeated  my  own  praises.  I  would  have  omitted 
some  of  the  words,  only  that  it  might  have  disturbed  the 
measure  and  cadences,  and  have  put  me  out.  They  are  the 
very  words  my  dearest  father  sang ;  and  they  are  the  last. 
Yet,  shame  upon  me  !  the  nurse  (the  same  who  stood  listen- 
ing near,  who  attended  me  into  this  country)  could  remember 
them  more  perfectly :  it  is  from  her  1  have  learned  them 
since ;  she  often  sings  them,  even  by  herself. 


III. 
TIBERIUS    AND    VIP.SANIA. 
Tiberius.     Vipsania,  my  Vipsania,  whither  art  thou  walk- 


ing.? 


Vipsania.     Whom  do  I  see?  —  my  Tiberius? 

Tiberius.  Ah !  no,  no,  no !  but  thou  seest  the  father  of 
thy  little  Drusus.  Press  him  to  thy  heart  the  more  closely 
for  this  meeting,  and  give  him  — 

Vipsania.  Tiberius  !  the  altars,  the  gods,  the  destinies, 
are  between  us  —  I  will  take  it  from  this  hand ;  thus,  thus 
shall  he  receive  it. 


20  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Tiberius.  Raise  up  thy  face,  my  beloved  !  I  must  not 
shed  tears.  Augustus !  Livia !  ye  shall  not  extort  them 
from  me.  Vipsania !  1  may  kiss  thy  head  —  for  1  have 
saved  it.     Thou  sayest  nothing.      I  have  wronged  thee;  ay? 

Vipsania.  Ambition  does  not  see  the  earth  she  treads 
on;  the  rock  and  the  herbage  are  of  one  substance  to  her. 
Let  me  excuse  you  to  my  heart,  O  Tiberius.  It  has  many 
wants ;  this  is  the  first  and  greatest. 

liberius.  My  ambition,  I  swear  by  the  immortal  gods, 
placed  not  the  bar  of  severance  between  us.  A  stronger 
hand,  the  hand  that  composes  Rome  and  sways  the  world  — 

Vipsania.  — Overawed  I'iberius.  I  know  it ;  Augustus 
willed  and  commanded  it. 

Tiberius.  And  overawed  Tiberius !  Power  bent,  Death 
terrified,  a  Nero  !  What  is  our  race,  that  any  should  look 
down  on  us  and  spurn  us?  Augustus,  my  benefactor,  I 
have  wronged  thee!  Livia,  my  mother,  this  one  cruel 
deed  was  thine !  To  reign,  forsooth,  is  a  lovely  thing. 
()  \v(jnianly  appetite!  Who  would  have  been  before  me, 
though  the  palace  of  Caesar  cracked  and  split  with  emperors, 
while  1,  sitting  in  idleness  on  a  cliff  of  Rhodes,  eyed  the 
sun  as  he  swang  his  golden  censer  athwart  the  heavens,  or 
his  image  as  it  (;verstrode  the  sea?  I  have  it  before  me; 
and,  tliough  it  seems  falling  on  me,  I  can  smile  at  it,  — just 
as  I  did  from  my  little  favourite  skiff,  painted  round  with 
the  marriage  of  Thetis,  when  the  sailors  drew  their  long 
shaggy  hair  across  their  eyes,  many  a  stadium  away  from  it, 
to  mitigate  its  effulgence. 

'I'hese  too  were  happy  days :  days  of  happiness  like  these 
I  could  recall  and  look  back  upon  with  unaching  brow. 

O  land  of  Greece  !  'J'iberius  blesses  thee,  bidding  thee 
rejoice  and  flourish. 

Why  cannot  (jne  hour,  Vipsania,  beauteous  and  light  as 
we  have  led,  return? 


TIBERIUS   AND   IVPSANIA.  21 

Vipsania.  Tiberius!  is  it  to  me  that  you  were  speaking? 
[  would  not  interrupt  you;  but  I  thought  I  heard  my  name 
as  you  walked  away  and  looked  up  toward  the  East.  So 
silent! 

Tiberius.  Who  dared  to  call  thee?  Thou  wert  mine 
before  the  gods  — do  they  deny  it?     Was  it  my  fault  — 

Vipsania.  Since  we  are  separated,  and  for  ever,  O 
Tiberius,  let  us  think  no  more  on  the  cause  of  it.  Let 
neither  of  us  believe  that  the  other  was  to  blame  :  so  shall 
separation  be  less  painful. 

Tiberius.  ()  mother!  and  did  I  not  tell  thee  what  she 
was?  —  patient  in  injury,  proud  in  innocence,  serene  in 
grief ! 

Vipsania.  Did  you  say  that  too?  But  I  think  it  was  so  : 
I  had  felt  little.  One  vast  wave  has  washed  away  the  im- 
pression of  smaller  from  my  memory.  Could  Livia,  could 
your  mother,  could  she  who  was  so  kind  to  me  — 

Tiberius.  The  wife  of  Caesar  did  it.  But  hear  me  now  ! 
hear  me  :  be  calm  as  I  am.  No  weaknesses  are  such  as 
those  of  a  mother  who  loves  her  only  son  immoderately; 
and  none  are  so  easily  worked  upon  from  without.  Who 
knows  what  impulses  she  received  ?  She  is  very,  very 
kind  ;  but  she  regards  me  only,  and  that  which  at  her  bid- 
ding is  to  encompass  and  adorn  me.  All  the  weak  look 
after  Power,  protectress  of  weakness.  Thou  art  a  woman, 
O  Vipsania!  is  there  nothing  in  thee  to  excuse  my  mother? 
So  good  she  ever  was  to  me  !  so  loving. 

Vipsania.      I  quite  forgive  her:  be  tranquil,  O  'I'iberius  ! 

Tberius.  Never  can  I  know  peace  —  never  can  I  pardon 
—  any  one.  Threaten  me  with  thy  exile,  thy  separation, 
thy  seclusion  !  Remind  me  that  another  climate  might 
endanger  thy  health!  —  There  death  met  me  and  turned  me 
round.  Threaten  me  to  take  our  son  from  us,  —  our  one 
boy,   our    helpless    little    one, — him   whom   we    made    cry 


22  /MAG /NARY  CONVERSAT/ONS. 

because  we  kissed  him  both  together!  Rememberest  thou? 
Or  dost  thou  not  hear?  turning  thus  away  from  me! 

l^ipsauia.  I  hear  ;  I  hear.  Oh  cease,  my  sweet  Tiberius  ! 
Stamp  not  upon  that  stone  :  my  heart  lies  under  it. 

Tiberius.  Ay,  there  again  death,  and  more  than  death, 
stood  before  me.  Oh  she  maddened  me,  my  mother  did, 
she  maddened  me  —  she  threw  me  to  where  I  am  at  one 
breath.  The  gods  cannot  replace  me  where  I  was,  nor 
atone  to  me,  nor  console  me,  nor  restore  my  senses.  To 
whom  can  I  fly?  to  whom  can  I  open  my  heart?  to  whom 
speak  plainly  ?  I'here  was  upon  the  earth  a  man  1  could 
converse  with  and  fear  nothing  ;  there  was  a  woman  too  I 
could  love,  and  fear  nothing.  What  a  soldier,  what  a 
Roman,  was  thy  father,  O  my  young  bride  !  How  could 
those  who  never  saw  him  have  discoursed  so  rightly  upon 
virtue ! 

Vipsania.  These  words  cool  my  breast  like  pressing  his 
urn  against  it.     He  was  brave:  shall  Tiberius  want  courage? 

Tiberius.  My  enemies  scorn  me.  I  am  a  garland  dropped 
from  a  triumphal  car,  and  taken  up  and  looked  on  for  the 
place  I  occupied  ;  and  tossed  away  and  laughed  at.  Sena- 
tors! laugh,  laugh  !  Your  merits  may  be  yet  rewarded  —  be 
of  good  cheer!  Counsel  me,  in  your  wisdom,  what  services 
I  can  render  you,  conscript  fathers  ! 

Vipsania.  This  seems  mockery  :  Tiberius  did  not  smile 
so,  once. 

Tiberius.     They  had  not  then  congratulated  me. 

Vipsania.     On  what? 

Tiberius.  And  it  was  not  because  she  was  beautiful,  as 
they  thought  her,  and  virtuous,  as  I  know  she  is;  but 
because  the  flowers  on  the  altar  were  to  be  tied  together  by 
my  heart-string.  On  this  they  congratulated  me.  Their 
day  will  come.  Their  sons  and  daughters  are  what  I  would 
wish  them  to  be  :  worthy  to  succeed  them. 


METELLUS  AND   MARIUS.  23 

Vipsania.  Where  is  that  quietude,  that  resignation,  that 
sanctity,  that  heart  of  true  tenderness? 

Tiberius.     Where  is  my  love?  — my  love? 

Vipsania.  Cry  not  thus  aloud,  Tiberius!  there  is  an  echo 
in  the  place.      Soldiers  and  slaves  may  burst  in  upon  us. 

Tiberius.  And  see  my  tears?  There  is  no  echo,  Vip- 
sania; why  alarm  and  shake  me  so?  We  are  too  high  here 
for  the  echoes :  the  city  is  below  us.  Methinks  it  trembles 
and  totters  :  would  it  did !  from  the  marble  quays  of  the 
Tiber  to  this  rock.  There  is  a  strange  buzz  and  murmur  in 
my  brain  ;  but  I  should  listen  so  intensely,  1  should  hear 
the  rattle  of  its  roofs,  and  shout  with  joy. 

Vipsania.     Calm,  O  my  life  !  calm  this  horrible  transport. 

Tiberius.  Spake  I  so  loud  ?  Did  I  indeed  then  send  my 
voice  after  a  lost  sound,  to  bring  it  back;  and  thou  fancied- 
est  it  an  echo?  Wilt  not  thou  laugh  with  me,  as  thou  wert 
wont  to  do,  at  such  an  error?  Wliat  was  I  saying  to  thee, 
my  tender  love,  when  I  commanded  —  I  know  not  whom  — 
to  stand  back,  on  pain  of  death?  \\'hy  starest  thou  on  me 
in  such  agony?  Have  I  hurt  thy  fingers,  child?  I  loose 
them ;  now  let  me  look !  Thou  turnest  thine  eyes  away 
from  me.  Oh!  oh!  I  hear  my  crime  !  Immortal  gods!  I 
cursed  then  audibly,  and  before  the  sun,  my  mother! 


IV. 

METELLUS    AND    IVIARIUS. 

Metdlus.  Well  met,  Caius  Marius!  My  orders  are  to 
find  instantly  a  centurion  who  shall  mount  the  walls ;  one 
capable  of  observation,  acute  in  remark,  prompt,  calm, 
active,  intrepid.  The  Numantians  are  sacrificing  to  the 
gods  in  secrecy ;  they  have  sounded  the  horn  once  only,  — 
and  hoarsely,  and  low,  and  mournfully. 


24  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Marius.  W^as  that  ladder  I  see  yonder  among  the  caper- 
bushes  and  purple  lilies,  under  where  the  fig-tree  grows  out 
of  the  rampart,  left  for  me  ? 

Mctcllus.  P>en  so,  wert  thou  willing.  Wouldst  thou 
mount  it  ? 

Alarius.  Rejoicingly.  If  none  are  below  or  near,  may  I 
explore  the  state  of  things  by  entering  the  city.'' 

MeteUus.      Use  thy  discretion  in  that. 

What  seest  thou?  Wouldst  thou  leap  down?  Lift  the 
ladder. 

Afariiis.  Are  there  spikes  in  it  where  it  sticks  in  the  turf? 
I  should  slip  else. 

ATctclhis.  How!  bravest  of  our  centurions,  art  even  thou 
afraid?     Seest  thou  any  one  by? 

Marius.     Ay  ;  some  hundreds  close  beneath  me. 

Mctcllus,  Retire,  then.  Hasten  back;  I  will  protect  thy 
descent. 

Marius.  May  I  speak,  O  Metellus,  without  an  offence 
to  discipline? 

Metellus.      Say. 

Marius.      Listen  !      Dost  thou  not  hear? 

Mctcllus.  Shame  on  thee!  alight,  alight!  my  shield  shall 
cover  thee. 

Marius.  There  is  a  murmur  like  the  hum  of  bees  in  the 
beanfield  of  ('create  ;*  for  the  sun  is  iiot,  and  the  ground  is 
thirsty.  When  will  it  have  drunk  u])  for  nie  the  blood  that 
has  run,  and  is  yet  oozing  on  it,  from  those  fresh  bodies! 

Mctcllus.  How!  We  have  not  fought  for  many  days; 
what  bodies,  then,  are  fresh  ones? 

Marius.     Close  beneath  the  wall  are  those  of  infants  and 

of  girls;   in  the  middle  of  the  road  are  youths,  emaciated; 

some  either  unwounded  or  wounded  months  ago ;  some  on 

their  spears,  others  on  their  swords  :  no  few  have  received 

*  The  farm  of  Marius,  near  Arpinum. 


ME  TELL  us  AND  MAR /US.  25 

in    mutual   death   the   last   interchange   of  friendship ;  their 
daggers  unite  them,  hilt  to  hilt,  bosom  to  bosom. 

Alctellus.     Mark  rather  the  living,  —  what  are  they  about? 

Marius.  About  the  sacrifice,  which  portends  them,  I 
conjecture,  but  little  good,  —  it  burns  sullenly  and  slowly. 
The  victim  will  lie  upon  the  pyre  till  morning,  and  still  be 
unconsumed,  unless  they  bring  more  fuel. 

I  will  leap  down  and  walk  on  cautiously,  and  return  with 
tidings,  if  death  should  spare  me. 

Never  was  any  race  of  mortals  so  unmilitary  as  these 
Numantians:  no  watch,  no  statiotis,  no  palisades  across  the 
streets. 

Meti-lhis.  Did  they  want,  then,  all  the  wood  for  the 
altar  ? 

Marius.      It  appears  so,  —  I  will  return  anon. 

MetcUiis.  The  gods  speed  thee,  my  brave,  honest 
Marius! 

Marius  (rctunictf).  The  ladder  should  have  been  better 
spiked  for  that  slippery  ground.  I  am  down  again  safe, 
however.  Here  a  man  may  walk  securely,  and  without 
picking  his  steps. 

MetcIIus.     Tell  me,  Caius,  what  thou  sawest. 

Marius.     The  streets  of  Numantia. 

Aletelliis.      Doubtless;   but  what  else? 

Marius.  The  temples  and  markets  and  places  of  exer- 
cise and  fountains. 

Mctdlus.  Art  thou  crazed,  centurion?  what  more?  Speak 
plainly,  at  once,  and  briefly. 

Marius.     I  beheld,  then,  all  Numantia. 

Metcllus.  Has  terror  maddened  thee?  hast  thou  descried 
nothing  of  the  inhabitants  but  those  carcasses  under  the 
ramparts  ? 

Marius.  Those,  O  Metellus,  lie  scattered,  although  not 
indeed  far  asunder.     The  greater  part  of  the  soldiers  and 


26  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

citizens  —  of  the  fathers,  husbands,  widows,  wives,  espoused 
■ —  were  assembled  together. 

MetcUus.     About  the  altar? 

Marius.     Upon  it. 

Mctellus.  So  busy  and  earnest  in  devotion  !  but  how  all 
upon  it? 

Marius.  It  blazed  under  them,  and  over  them,  and 
round   about   them. 

Mctellus.  Immortal  gods  !  Art  thou  sane,  Caius  Marius? 
Thy  visage  is  scorched  :  thy  speech  may  wander  after  such 
an  enterprise ;  thy  shield  burns  my  hand. 

Marius.  I  thought  it  had  cooled  again.  Why,  truly,  it 
seems  hot :   I  now  feel  it. 

Metellus.     Wipe  off  those  embers. 

Marius.  'T  were  better  :  there  will  be  none  opposite  to 
shake  them  upon,  for  some  time. 

The  funereal  horn,  that  sounded  with  such  feebleness, 
sounded  not  so  from  the  faint  heart  of  him  who  blew  it. 
Him  I  saw;  him  only  of  the  living.  Should  I  say  it?  there 
was  another  :  there  was  one  child  whom  its  parent  could 
not  kill,  could  not  part  from.  She  had  hidden  it  in  her 
robe,  I  suspect;  and,  wlien  the  fire  had  reached  it,  either 
it  shrieked  or  she  did.  For  suddenly  a  cry  pierced  through 
the  crackling  pinewood,  and  something  of  round  in  figure 
fell  from  brand  to  brand,  until  it  reached  the  pavement,  at 
the  feet  of  him  who  had  blown  the  horn.  I  rushed  toward 
him,  for  I  wanted  to  hear  the  whole  story,  and  felt  the 
pressure  of  time.  Condemn  not  my  weaknes.s,  O  Cx-cilius ! 
I  wished  an  enemy  to  live  an  hour  longer  ;  for  my  orders 
were  to  explore  and  bring  intelligence.  When  I  gazed  on 
him,  in  height  almost  gigantic,  I  wondered  not  that  the 
blast  of  his  trumpet  was  so  weak:  rather  did  I  wonder  that 
Famine,  whose  hand  had  indented  every  limb  and  feature, 
had   left   him   any  voice   articulate,      i   rushed   toward   him, 


ME  TELL  us  AND   MARIUS.  27 

however,  ere  my  eyes  had  measured  either  his  form  or 
strength.  He  held  the  child  against  me,  and  staggered 
under  it. 

"  Behold,"  he  exclaimed,  "  the  glorious  ornament  of  a 
Roman  triumph  !  " 

I  stood  horror-stricken ;  when  suddenly  drops,  as  of  rain, 
pattered  down  from  the  pyre.  I  looked  ;  and  many  were 
the  precious  stones,  many  were  the  amulets  and  rings  and 
bracelets,  and  other  barbaric  ornaments,  unknown  to  me  in 
form  or  purpose,  that  tinkled  on  the  hardened  and  black 
branches,  from  mothers  and  wives  and  betrothed  maids  ; 
and  some,  too,  I  can  imagine,  from  robuster  arms, — things 
of  joyance,  won  in  battle.  The  crowd  of  incumbent  bodies 
was  so  dense  and  heavy,  that  neither  the  fire  nor  the  smoke 
could  penetrate  upward  from  among  them  ;  and  they  sank, 
whole  and  at  once,  into  the  smouldering  cavern  eaten  out 
below.  He  at  whose  neck  hung  the  trumpet  felt  this,  and 
started. 

"There  is  yet  room,"  he  cried,  "and  there  is  strength 
enough  yet,  both  in  the  element  and  in  me." 

He  extended  his  withered  arms,  he  thrust  forward  the 
gaunt  links  of  his  throat,  and  upon  gnarled  knees,  that 
smote  each  other  audibly,  tottered  into  the  civic  fire.  It  — 
like  some  hungry  and  strangest  beast  on  the  innermost 
wild  of  Africa,  pierced,  broken,  prostrate,  motionless,  gazed 
at  by  its  hunter  in  the  impatience  of  glory,  in  the  delight  of 
awe  —  panted  once  more,  and  seized  him. 

I  have  seen  within  this  hour,  O  Metellus,  what  Rome  in 
the  cycle  of  her  triumphs  will  never  see,  what  the  Sun  in 
his  eternal  course  can  never  show  her,  what  the  Karth  has 
borne  but  now,  and  must  never  rear  again  for  her,  what 
Victory  herself  has  envied  her  —  a  Numantian. 

Metellus.  We  shall  feast  to-morrow.  Hope,  Caius  Marius, 
to  become  a  tribvme  :  trust  in  fortune. 


28  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Mariiis.     Auguries  are  surer :  surest  of  all  is  perseverance. 

MctcUiis.  I  hope  the  wine  has  not  grown  vapid  in  my 
tent :  I  have  kept  it  waiting,  and  must  now  report  to  Scipio 
the  intelligence  of  our  discovery.     Come  after  me,  Caius. 

Mariiis  {(ilonc).  The  tribune  is  the  discoverer!  the 
centurion  is  the  scout!  Caius  Marius  must  enter  more 
Numantias.  Light-hearted  Coicilius,  thou  mayest  perhaps 
hereafter,  and  not  with  humbled  but  with  exulting  pride, 
take  orders  from  this  hand.  If  Scipio's  words  are  fate,  and 
to  me  they  sound  so,  the  portals  of  the  Capitol  may  shake 
before  my  chariot,  as  my  horses  plunge  back  at  the  applauses 
of  the  people,  and  Jove  in  his  high  domicile  may  welcome 
the  citizen  of  Arpinum. 


MARCELLUS   AND    HANNIBAL. 

llamiibal.  Could  a  Numidian  horseman  ride  no  faster? 
Marcellus  !  ho!  Marcellus  !  He  moves  not  —  he  is  dead. 
Did  he  not  stir  his  fingers?  Stand  wide,  soldiers  —  wide, 
forty  paces  —  give  him  air — bring  water  —  halt!  Gather 
those  broad  leaves,  and  all  the  rest,  growing  under  the 
brushwood  —  unbrace  his  armour.  Loose  the  helmet  first 
—  his  breast  rises.  1  fancied  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  me  — 
they  have  rolled  back  again.  Wlio  presumed  to  touch  my 
shoulder?  This  horse?  It  was  surely  the  horse  of  Mar- 
cellus! Let  no  man  nK)unt  him.  Ha!  ha!  the  Romans 
too  sink  into  luxury  :   liere  is  gold  about  the  charger. 

Gaulish  Chifflnin.  Execrable  thief  !  The  golden  chain 
of  our  king  under  a  beast's  grinders!  The  vengeance  of 
the  gods  hath  overtaken  the  impure  — 

Haniiiluil.  W^e  will  talk  about  vengeance  when  we  have 
entered  Rome,  and  about  purity  among  the  priests,  if  they 
will   hear  us.      Sound   for  the  surgeon.     That  arrow  may  be 


MARCELLUS  AXD   HANNIBAL.  29 

extracted  from  the  side,  deep  as  it  is.  —  The  conqueror  of 
Syracuse  lies  before  me.  —  Send  a  vessel  off  to  Carthage. 
Say  Hannibal  is  at  the  gates  of  Rome.  —  Marcellus,  who 
stood  alone  between  us,  fallen.  Brave  man  !  1  would 
rejoice  and  cannot.  —  How  awfully  serene  a  countenance  ! 
Such  as  we  hear  are  in  the  islands  of  the  Blessed.  And 
how  glorious  a  form  and  stature!  Such  too  was  theirs! 
They  also  once  lay  thus  upon  the  earth  wet  with  their  blood 
—  few  other  enter  there.      And  what  plain  armour! 

Gaulish  Chieftain.  My  party  slew  him  —  indeed  I  think 
I  slew  him  myself.  I  claim  the  chain :  it  belongs  to  my 
king:  the  glory  of  Gaul  requires  it.  Never  will  she  endure 
to  see  another  take  it :  rather  would  she  lose  her  last  man. 
We  swear  !  we  swear! 

Hanjiibal.  My  friend,  the  glory  of  Marcellus  did  not 
require  him  to  wear  it.  When  he  suspended  the  arms  of 
your  brave  king  in  the  temple,  he  thought  such  a  trinket 
unworthy  of  himself  and  of  Jupiter.  The  shield  he  battered 
down,  the  breast-plate  he  pierced  with  his  sword,  —  these 
he  showed  to  the  people  and  to  the  gods;  hardly  his  wife 
and  little  children  saw  this,  ere  his  horse  wore  it. 

Gaulish  CJiicftaiii.      Hear  me,  O  Hannibal! 

Hannibal.  What!  when  Marcellus  lies  before  me?  when 
his  life  may  perhaps  be  recalled  ?  when  I  may  lead  him  in 
triumph  to  Carthage?  when  Italy,  Sicily,  Greece,  Asia, 
wait  to  obey  me?  Content  thee!  I  will  give  thee  mine 
own  bridle,  worth  ten  such. 

Gaulish  Chieftain.      For  myself? 

Hannibal.      For  thyself. 

Gaulish  Chieftain.  And  these  rubies  and  emeralds,  and 
that  scarlet  — 

Hannibal.     Yes,  yes. 

Gaulish  Chieftain.  O  glorious  Hannibal !  unconquerable 
hero!     O   my   happy  country!    to   have  such   an  ally   and 


30  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

defender.  I  swear  eternal  gratitude  —  yes,  gratitude,  love, 
devotion,  beyond  eternity. 

Hannibal.  In  all  treaties  we  fix  the  time:  I  could  hardly 
ask  a  longer.  Go  back  to  thy  station.  —  I  would  see  what 
the  surgeon  is  about,  and  hear  what  he  thinks.  The  life  of 
Marcellus  !•  the  triumph  of  Hannibal!  what  else  has  the 
world  in  it?      Only  Rome  and  Carthage:   these  follow. 

Surgeon.      Hardly  an  hour  of  life  is  left. 

Marcellus.  1  must  die  then  !  The  gods  be  praised  !  The 
commander  of  a  Roman  army  is  no  captive. 

HanniOal  (to  the  Surgeon).  Could  not  he  bear  a  sea- 
voyage?      Extract  the  arrow. 

Surgeon.     He  expires  that  moment. 

Marcellus.     It  pains  me  :  extract  it. 

Hannibal.  Marcellus,  I  see  no  expression  of  pain  on 
your  countenance,  and  never  will  I  consent  to  hasten  the 
death  of  an  enemy  in  my  power.  Since  your  recovery  is 
hopeless,  you  say  truly  you  are  no  captive. 

{^I'o  the  Surgeon  )  Is  there  nothing,  man,  that  can  assuage 
the  mortal  pain  ?  for,  suppress  the  signs  of  it  as  he  may,  he 
must  feel  it-.      Is  there  nothing  to  alleviate  and  allay  it? 

Marcellus.  Hannibal,  give  me  thy  hand  —  thou  hast 
found  it  and  brought  it  me,  compassion. 

{To  the  Surgeon.)  Go,  friend;  others  want  thy  aid; 
several  fell  around  me. 

Hannibal.  Recommend  to  your  country,  O  Marcellus, 
while  time  permits  it,  reconciliation  and  peace  with  me, 
informing  the  Senate  of  my  superiority  in  force,  and  the 
impossibility  of  resistance.  The  tablet  is  ready :  let  me 
take  off  this  ring — try  to  write,  to  sign  it  at  least.  Oh, 
what  satisfaction  I  feel  at  seeing  you  able  to  rest  upon  the 
elbow,  and  even  to  smile! 

Marcellus.  Within  an  hour  or  less,  with  how  severe  a  brow 
would  Minos  say  to  me,  "  Marcellus,  is  this  thy  writing?  " 


MARCELLUS  AND   HANNIBAL.  31 

Rome  loses  one  man:  she  hath  lost  many  such,  and  she 
still  hath  many  left. 

Hannibal.  Afraid  as  you  are  of  falsehood,  say  you  this  ? 
I  confess  in  shame  the  ferocity  of  my  countrymen.  Un- 
fortunately, too,  the  nearer  posts  are  occupied  by  Gauls, 
infinitely  more  cruel.  The  Numidians  are  so  in  revenge ; 
the  Gauls  both  in  revenge  and  in  sport.  My  presence  is 
required  at  a  distance,  and  1  apprehend  the  barbarity  of 
one  or  other,  learning,  as  they  must  do,  your  refusal  to 
execute  my  wishes  for  the  common  good,  and  feeling  that 
by  this  refusal  you  deprive  them  of  their  country,  after  so 
long  an  absence. 

MarccUus.     Hannibal,  thou  art  not  dying. 

Hannibal.      What  then  ?     What  mean  you  ? 

Manellus.  That  thou  mayest,  and  very  justly,  have  many 
things  yet  to  apprehend  :  1  can  have  none.  The  barbarity 
of  thy  soldiers  is  nothing  to  me  :  mine  would  not  dare  be 
cruel.  Hannibal  is  forced  to  be  absent ;  and  his  authority 
goes  away  with  his  horse.  On  this  turf  lies  defaced  the 
semblance  of  a  general  ;  but  Marcellus  is  yet  the  regulator 
of  his  army.  Dost  thou  abdicate  a  power  conferred  on 
thee  by  thy  nation?  Or  wouldst  thou  acknowledge  it  to 
have  become,  by  thy  own  sole  fault,  less  plenary  than  thy 
adversary's  ? 

I  have  spoken  too  much :  let  me  rest ;  this  mantle 
oppresses  me. 

Ha/niibal.  I  placed  my  mantle  on  your  head  when  the 
helmet  was  first  removed,  and  while  you  were  lying  in  the 
sun.     Let  me  fold  it  under,  and  then  replace  the  ring. 

Marcellus.  Take  it,  Hannibal.  1 1  was  given  me  by  a 
poor  woman  who  flew  to  me  at  Syracuse,  and  who  covered 
it  with  her  hair,  torn  off  in  desperation  that  she  had  no 
other  gift  to  offer.  Little  thought  I  that  her  gift  and  her 
words  should  be  mine.     How  suddenly  may  the  most  power- 


32  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

ful  be  in  the  situation  of  the  most  helpless  !  Let  that  ring 
and  the  mantle  under  my  head  be  the  exchange  of  guests  at 
parting.  The  time  may  come,  Hannibal,  when  thou  (and 
the  gods  alone  know  whether  as  conqueror  or  conquered) 
mayest  sit  under  the  roof  of  my  children,  and  in  either  case 
it  shall  serve  thee.  In  thy  adverse  fortune,  they  will  re- 
member on  whose  pillow  their  father  breathed  his  last;  in 
thy  prosperous  (Heaven  grant  it  may  shine  upon  thee  in 
some  other  country !)  it  will  rejoice  thee  to  protect  them. 
We  feel  ourselves  the  most  exempt  from  affliction  when  we 
relieve  it,  although  we  are  then  the  most  conscious  that  it 
may  befall  us. 

There  is  one  thing  here  which  is  not  at  the  disposal  of 
either. 

Hannibal.     What  t 
Marcellus.     This  body. 

IIan)iibal.  Whither  would  you  be  lifted.-*  Men  are 
ready. 

Alancllus.  I  meant  not  so.  My  strength  is  failing.  I 
seem  to  hear  rather  what  is  within  than  what  is  without. 
My  sight  and  my  other  senses  are  in  confusion.  I  would 
have  said  —  This  body,  when  a  few  bubbles  of  air  shall 
have  left  it,  is  no  more  worthy  of  thy  notice  than  of  mine ; 
but  thy  glory  will  not  let  thee  refuse  it  to  the  piety  of  my 
family. 

Hannibal.  You  would  ask  something  else.  I  perceive 
an  inquietude  not  visible  till  now. 

Marcellus.  Duty  and  Death  make  us  think  of  home 
sometimes. 

Hannibal.  Thitherward  the  thoughts  of  the  conqueror 
and  of  the  conquered  ffy  together, 

Marcellus.     Hast  thou  any  prisoners  from  my  escort  ? 
Hannibal.     A  few  dying  lie  about  —  and  let  them  lie  — 
they  are  Tuscans.     The  remainder   I   saw   at  a  distance, 


HENRY  17//.   Ai\D   ANNE   /WLEYN.  33 

flying,  and  but  one  brave  man  among  them — ^  he  appeared 
a  Roman  —  a  youth  who  turned  back,  though  wounded. 
They  surrounded  and  dragged  him  away,  spurring  his  horse 
with  their  swords.  These  Etrurians  measure  their  courage 
carefully,  and  tack  it  well  together  before  they  put  it  on, 
but  throw  it  off  again  with  lordly  ease. 

Marcellus,  why  think  about  them  ?  or  does  aught  else  dis- 
quiet your  thoughts  ? 

Marcellus.  I  have  suppressed  it  long  enough.  My  son 
—  my  beloved  son  ! 

Hannibal.  Where  is  he.?  Can  it  be.''  Was  he  with 
you  1 

Marcellus.  He  would  have  shared  my  fate  —  and  has 
not.  Gods  of  my  country !  beneficent  throughout  life  to 
me,  in  death  surpassingly  beneficent,  I  render  you,  for  the 
last  time,  thanks. 

VI. 
HENRY    VIII.    AND    ANNE    BOLEYN. 

Henry.  Dost  thcni  know  me,  Nanny,  in  this  yeoman's 
dress  t  'S  blood !  does  it  require  so  long  and  vacant  a 
stare  to  recollect  a  husband  after  a  week  or  two .?  No 
tragedy-tricks  with  me  !  a  scream,  a  sob,  or  thy  kerchief  a 
trifle  the  wetter,  were  enough.  Why,  verily  the  little  fool 
faints  in  earnest.  These  whey  faces,  like  their  kinsfolk  the 
ghosts,  give  us  no  warning.  {Sprinkling  water  over  her.) 
Hast  had  water  enough  upon  thee  ?  Take  that,  then  :  art 
thyself  again .-' 

Anne.  Father  of  mercies  !  do  I  meet  again  my  husband, 
as  was  my  last  prayer  on  earth  ?  Do  I  behold  my  beloved 
lord  —  in  peace  —  and  pardoned,  my  partner  in  eternal 
bliss  }  It  was  his  voice.  I  cannot  see  him  :  why  cannot  I  ? 
Oh  why  do  these  pangs  interrupt  the  transports  of  the  blessed? 


34  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Henry.  Thou  open  est  thy  arms  :  faith  !  I  came  for 
that.  Nanny,  thou  art  a  sweet  slut.  Thou  groanest,  wench  : 
art  in  labour  ?  Faith  !  among  the  mistakes  of  the  night,  I 
am  ready  to  think  almost  that  thou  hast  been  drinking,  and 
that  I  have  not. 

Anne.  God  preserve  your  Highness  :  grant  me  your  for- 
giveness for  one  slight  offence.  My  eyes  were  heavy  ;  I  fell 
asleep  while  I  was  reading.  1  did  not  know  of  your  presence 
at  first  ;  and,  when  I  did,  1  could  not  speak.  I  strove  for 
utterance  :   I  wanted  no  respect  for  my  liege  and  husband. 

Henry.  My  pretty  warm  nestling,  thou  wilt  then  lie  ! 
Thou  wert  reading,  and  aloud  too,  with  thy  saintly  cup  of 
water  by  thee,  and  —  what !  thou  art  still  girlishly  fond  of 
those  dried  cherries  ! 

Anne.  I  had  no  other  fruit  to  offer  your  Highness  the 
first  time  I  saw  you,  and  you  were  then  pleased  to  invent  for 
me  some  reason  why  they  should  be  acceptable.  I  did  not 
dry  these  :  may  I  present  them,  such  as  they  are  ?  We  shall 
have  fresh  next  month. 

Henry.  Thou  art  always  driving  away  from  the  discourse. 
One  moment  it  suits  thee  to  know  me,  another  not. 

Anne.  Remember,  it  is  hardly  three  months  since  I  mis- 
carried :   I  am  weak,  and  liable  to  swoons. 

Henry.  Thou  hast,  however,  thy  bridal  cheeks,  with  lustre 
upon  them  when  there  is  none  elsewhere,  and  obstinate  lips 
resisting  all  impression  ;  but,  now  thou  talkest  about  mis- 
carrying, who  is  the  father  of  the  bcjy  ? 

Anne.  The  Father  is  yours  and  mine  ;  he  who  hath  taken 
him  to  his  own  home,  before  (like  me)  he  could  struggle  or 
cry  for  it. 

He7iry.  Pagan,  or  worse,  to  talk  so  !  He  did  not  come 
into  the  world  alive  :  there  was  no  baptism. 

A7ine.  I  thought  only  of  our  loss  :  my  senses  are  con- 
founded.    1  did  not  give  him  my  milk,  and  yet  I  loved  him 


HENRY  VIII.  AND  ANNE   BOLEYN.  35 

tenderly ;  for  I  often  fancied,  had  he  lived,  how  contented 
and  joyful  he  would  have  made  you  and  England. 

Henry.  No  subterfuges  and  escapes.  I  warrant,  thou 
canst  not  say  whether  at  my  entrance  thou  wert  waking  or 
wandering. 

Anne.     Faintness  and  drowsiness  came  upon  me  suddenly. 

Henry.  Well,  since  thou  really  and  truly  sleepedst,  what 
didst  dream  of  ? 

Anne.     1  begin  to  doubt  whether  I  did  indeed  sleep. 

Henry.  Ha  !  false  one  —  never  two  sentences  of  truth 
together  !  But  come,  what  didst  think  about,  asleep  or 
awake  ? 

Anne.  1  thought  that  God  had  pardoned  me  my  offences, 
and  had  received  me  unto  him. 

Henry.     And  nothing  more  ? 

Anne.  That  my  prayers  had  been  heard  and  my  wishes 
were  accomplishing  :  the  angels  alone  can  enjoy  more 
beatitude  than  this, 

Henry.  Vexatious  little  devil  !  she  says  nothing  now 
about  me,  merely  from  perverseness.  Hast  thou  never 
thought  about  me,  nor  about  thy  falsehood  and  adultery  ? 

Anne.  If  I  had  committed  any  kind  of  falsehood,  in 
regard  to  you  or  not,  I  should  never  have  rested  until  I  had 
thrown  myself  at  your  feet  and  obtained  your  pardon  ;  but, 
if  ever  I  had  been  guilty  of  that  other  crime,  I  know  not 
whether  I  should  have  dared  to  implore  it,  even  of  God's 
mercy. 

Henry.  Thou  hast  heretofore  cast  some  soft  glances  upon 
Smeaton  ;    hast  thou  not  ? 

Anne.  He  taught  me  to  play  on  the  virginals,  as  you 
know,  when  I  was  little,  and  thereby  to  please  your  Highness. 

Henry.  And  Brereton  and  Norris,  what  have  they  taught 
thee? 

Anne.     They  are  your  servants,  and  trusty  ones. 


36  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Henry.  Has  not  Weston  told  thee  plainly  that  he  loved 
thee? 

Ainic.     Yes  ;    and  — 

Hairy.     What  didst  thou  ? 

Anne.     I  defied  him. 

Henry.      Is  that  all  ? 

Anne.  I  could  have  done  no  more  if  he  had  told  me  that 
he  hated  me.  Then,  indeed,  1  should  have  incurred  more 
justly  the  reproaches  of  your  Highness  :  I  should  have  smiled. 

Henry.  We  have  proofs  abundant  :  the  fellows  shall  one 
and  all  confront  thee.  —  Ay,  clap  thy  hands  and  kiss  thy 
sleeve,  harlot  ! 

Anne.  Oh,  that  so  great  a  favour  is  vouchsafed  me  !  My 
honour  is  secure  ;  my  husband  will  be  happy  again  ;  he  will 
see  my  innocence. 

Henry.  Give  me  now  an  account  of  the  moneys  thou 
hast  received  from  me  within  these  nine  months.  I  want 
them  not  back  :  they  are  letters  of  gold  in  record  of  thy 
guilt.  Thou  hast  had  no  fewer  than  fifteen  thousand  pounds 
in  that  period,  without  even  thy  asking  ;  what  hast  done  with 
it,  wanton  ? 

Anne.      1  have  regularly  placed  it  out  to  interest. 

Henry.     Where  ?    1  demand  of  thee. 

Anne.  Among  the  needy  and  ailing.  My  Lord  Arch- 
bishop has  the  account  of  it,  sealed  by  him  weekly.  I  also 
had  a  copy  myself:  those  who  took  away  my  papers  may 
easily  find   it;    for   there  are  few  others,  and  they  lie  open. 

Henry.  Think  on  my  munificence  to  thee;  recollect  who 
made  thee.     Dost  sigh  for  what  thou  hast  lost? 

Anne.      I  do,  indeed. 

Henry.  I  never  thought  thee  ambitious  ;  but  thy  vices 
creep  out  one  by  one. 

Anne.  1  do  not  regret  that  I  have  been  a  queen  and  am 
no  longer  one  ;    nor  that  my  innocence  is  called  in  question 


HENRY  VI /I.   AND    ANNE    JIOL/CVN  37 

by  those  who  never  knew  me  :  but  1  lament  that  the  good 
people  who  loved  me  so  cordially,  hate  and  curse  me  ;  that 
those  who  pointed  me  out  to  their  daughters  for  imitation, 
check  them  when  they  speak  about  me  ;  and  that  he  whom 
next  to  God  I  have  served  with  most  devotion  is  my  accuser. 

Henry.  Wast  thou  conning  over  something  in  that  dingy 
book  for  thy  defence  ?  Come,  tell  me,  what  wast  thou  reading? 

Anne.  This  ancient  chronicle.  I  was  looking  for  some 
one  in  my  own  condition,  and  must  have  missed  the  page. 
Surely  in  so  many  hundred  years  there  shall  have  been  other 
young  maidens,  tirst  too  happy  for  exaltation,  and  after  too 
exalted  for  happiness,  —  not,  perchance,  doomed  to  die  upon 
a  scaffold,  by  those  they  ever  honoured  and  served  faithfully: 
that,  indeed,  I  did  not  look  for  nor  think  of;  but  my  heart 
was  bounding  for  any  one  I  could  love  and  pity.  She  would 
be  unto  me  as  a  sister  dead  and  gone  ;  but  hearing  me, 
seeing  me,  consoling  me,  and  being  consoled.  O  my 
husband  !    it  is  so  heavenly  a  thing  — 

Henry.  To  whine  and  whimper,  no  doubt,  is  vastly 
heavenly. 

Anne.  1  said  not  so  ;  but  those,  if  there  be  any  such,  who 
never  weep,  have  nothing  in  them  of  heavenly  or  of  earthly. 
The  plants,  the  trees,  the  very  rocks  and  unsunned  clouds, 
show  us  at  least  the  semblances  of  weeping ;  and  there  is 
not  an  aspect  of  the  globe  we  live  on,  nor  of  the  waters  and 
skies  around  it,  without  a  reference  and  a  similitude  to  our 
joys  or  sorrows. 

Henry.  I  do  not  remember  that  notion  anywhere.  Take 
care  no  enemy  rake  out  of  it  something  of  materialism. 
Guard  well  thy  empty  hot  brain  :  it  may  hatch  more  evil. 
As  for  those  odd  words,  I  myself  would  fain  see  no  great 
harm  in  them,  knowing  that  grief  and  frenzy  strike  out  many 
things  which  would  else  lie  still,  and  neither  spirt  nor  sparkle. 
I  also  know  that  thou  hast  never  read   any  tiling  hut  liihle 


1198tifi 


38  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

and  history,  —  the  two  worst  books  in  the  world  for  young 
people,  and  the  most  certain  to  lead  astray  both  prince  and 
subject.  For  which  reason  I  have  interdicted  and  entirely 
put  down  the  one,  and  will  (by  the  blessing  of  the  Virgin 
and  of  holy  Paul)  commit  the  other  to  a  rigid  censor.  If  it 
behooves  us  kings  to  enact  what  our  people  shall  eat  and 
drink,  —  of  which  the  most  unruly  and  rebellious  spirit  can 
entertain  no  doubt,  —  greatly  more  doth  it  behoove  us  to 
examine  what  they  read  and  think.  The  body  is  moved 
according  to  the  mind  and  will :  we  must  take  care  that  the 
movement  be  a  right  one,  on  pain  of  God's  anger  in  this  life 
and  the  next. 

Aiuic.  O  my  dear  husband  !  it  must  be  a  naughty  thing, 
indeed,  that  makes  him  angry  beyond  remission.  Did  you 
ever  try  how  pleasant  it  is  to  forgive  any  one  t  There  is 
nothing  else  wherein  we  can  resemble  God  perfectly  and 
easily. 

Henry.  Resemble  God  perfectly  and  easily  !  Do  vile 
creatures  talk  thus  of  the  Creator  ? 

Anne.  No,  Henry,  when  his  creatures  talk  thus  of  him, 
they  are  no  longer  vile  creatures  !  When  they  know  that  he 
is  good,  they  love  him ;  and,  when  they  love  him,  they  are 
good  themselves.  O  Henry  !  my  husband  and  King  !  the 
judgments  of  our  Heavenly  Father  are  righteous  :  on  this, 
surely,  we  must  think  alike. 

Henry.  And  what,  then?  Speak  out:  again  I  command 
thee,  speak  plainly  !  thy  tongue  was  not  so  torpid  but  this 
moment.     Art  ready  ?     Must  I  wait  ? 

Anne.  If  any  doubt  remains  upon  your  royal  mind  of  your 
equity  in  this  business  ;  should  it  haply  seem  possible  to 
you  that  passion  or  prejudice,  in  yourself  or  another,  may 
have  warped  so  .strong  an  understanding,  —  do  but  supplicate 
the  Almighty  to  strengthen  and  enlighten  it,  and  he  will 
hear  you. 


HENRY  VIII.  AND  ANNE   BOLEYN.  39 

Henry.    What  !   thou  wouldst  fain  change  thy  quarters,  ay? 

Anne.  My  spirit  is  detached  and  ready,  and  I  shall  change 
them  shortly,  whatever  your  Highness  may  determine.  Ah  ! 
my  native  Bickling  is  a  pleasant  place.  May  1  go  back 
to  it.''  Does  that  kind  smile  say,  Ycsl  J)o  the  hounds  ever 
run  that  way  now .''  The  fruit-trees  must  be  all  in  full  blos- 
som, and  the  gorse  on  the  hill  above  quite  dazzling.  How 
good  it  was  in  you  to  plant  your  park  at  Greenwich  after  my 
childish  notion,  tree  for  tree,  the  very  same  as  at  Bickling  ! 
Has  the  hard  winter  killed  them,  or  the  winds  loosened  the 
stakes  about  them  ? 

Henry.     Silly  child  !  as  if  thou  shouldst  see  them  any  more. 

Anne.  Alas,  what  strange  things  happen  !  But  they  and 
I  are  nearly  of  the  same  age  ;  young  alike,  and  without  hold 
upon  any  thing. 

Henry.     Yet  thou  appearest  hale  and  resolute,  and  (they 

tell  me)  smirkest  and  smilest  to  everybody. 

Anne.    The  withered  leaf  catches  the  sun  sometimes,  little 

"it 
as  it  can  profit  by  it ;  and  I  have  heard  stories  of  the  breeze 

in  other  climates  that  sets  in  when  daylight  is  about  to  close, 

and   how  constant   it  is,    and    h(nv  refreshing.       My  heart, 

indeed,    is  now   sustained  strangely :     it  became   the  more 

sensibly  so  from  that  time  forward,  when  power  and  grandeur 

and  all  things  terrestrial  were  sunk  from  sight.      Every  act 

of  kindness  in   those  about    me  gives   me  satisfaction  and 

pleasure,  such  as  1  did  not  feel  formerly.    I  was  worse  before 

God  chastened  me  ;  yet  I  was  never  an  ingrate.    What  pains 

have  I  taken  to   find  out  the  village-girls  who  placed  their 

posies  in   my  chamber  ere   I   arose  in   the  morning  !      How 

gladly  would  I  have  recompensed  the  forester  who  lit  up  a 

brake  on  my  birthnight,  which  else  had  warmed  him  half 

tiie  winter!      But  these  are  times  past:   I  was  not  Queen  of 

England. 

Henry.     Nor  adulterous,  nor  heretical. 


40  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

Atme.     God  be  praised  ! 

Henry.  Learned  saint  !  thou  knowest  nothing  of  the 
lighter,  but  perhaps  canst  inform  me  about  the  graver,  of 
them. 

A?ine.     Which  may  it  be,  my  Hege  ? 

Henry.  Which  may  it  be  ?  Pestilence  !  I  marvel  that  the 
walls  of  this  tower  do  not  crack  around  thee  at  such  impiety. 

Anne.  I  would  be  instructed  by  the  wisest  of  theologians: 
such  is  your  Highness. 

Henty.  Are  the  sins  of  the  body,  foul  as  they  are,  com- 
parable to  those  of  the  soul  ? 

Anne.     When  they  are  united,  they  must  be  worse. 

Henry.  (lO  on,  go  on :  thou  pushest  thy  own  breast 
against  the  sword.  God  hath  deprived  thee  of  thy  reason  for 
thy  punishment.    I  must  hear  more  :  proceed,  I  charge  thee. 

Anne.  An  aptitude  to  believe  one  thing  rather  than 
another,  from  ignorance  or  weakness,  or  from  the  more  per- 
suasive manner  of  the  teacher,  or  from  his  purity  of  life,  or 
from  the  strong  impression  of  a  particular  text  at  a  particular 
time,  and  various  things  beside,  may  influence  and  decide 
our  opinion  ;  and  the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  let  us  hope,  will 
fall  gently  on  human  fallibility. 

Henry.  Opinion  in  matters  of  faith  !  rare  wisdom!  rare 
religion  !  Troth,  Anne  !  thou  hast  well  sobered  me.  I  came 
rather  warmly  and  lovingly  ;  but  these  light  ringlets,  by  the 
holy  rood,  shall  not  shade  this  shoulder  much  longer.  Nay, 
do  not  start  ;  I  tap  it  for  the  last  time,  my  sweetest.  If  the 
Church  permitted  it,  thou  shouldst  set  forth  on  thy  long 
journey  with  the  eucharist  between  thy  teeth,  however  loath. 

Anne.  Love  your  Klizabeth,  my  honoured  lord,  and  God 
bless  you  !  She  will  soon  forget  to  call  me.  Do  not  chide 
her  :    think  how  young  she  is. 

Could  I,  could  [  kiss  her,  but  once  again  !  it  would  com- 
fort my  heart,  — or  Ijreak  it. 


KOGEK   ASCIIAM  AND   LADY  JANE    GREY.  41 

VII. 
ROGER   ASCHAM    AND    LADY    JANE    GREY. 

Ascham.  Thou  art  going,  my  dear  young  lady,  into  a 
most  awful  state ;  thou  art  passing  into  matrimony  and 
great  wealth,     God  hath  willed  it  :  submit  in   thankfulness. 

Thy  affections  are  rightly  placed  and  well  distributed. 
Love  is  a  secondary  passion  in  those  wlio  love  most ;  a 
primary  in  those  who  love  least.  He  who  is  inspired  by 
it  in  a  high  degree  is  inspired  by  honour  in  a  higher:  it 
never  reaches  its  plenitude  of  growth  and  perfection  but 
in  the  most  exalted  minds.     Alas!     alas! 

Jane.  What  aileth  my  virtuous  Ascham  .^  What  is  amiss.'' 
Why  do  I  tremble  .'' 

Ascham.  I  remember  a  sort  of  prophecy,  made  three 
years  ago  :  it  is  a  prophecy  of  my  condition  and  of  my 
feelings  on  it.  Recollectest  thou  who  wrote,  sitting  upon 
the  sea-beach  the  evening  after  an  excursion  to  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  these  verses  ?  — 

"  Invisibly  bright  water  !     so  like  air, 
On  looking  down  I  feared  thou  coiiidst  not  liear 
My  little  bark,  of  all  light  barks  most  light, 
And  look'd  again,  and  drew  me  from  the  sight. 
And,  hanging  back,  breath'd  each  fresh  gale  aghast, 
And  held  the  bench,  not  to  go  on  so  fast." 

Jane.  I  was  very  childish  when  I  composed  them  ;  and, 
if  I  had  thought  any  more  about  the  matter,  I  should  have 
hoped  you  had  been  too  generous  to  keep  them  in  your 
memory  as  w-itnesses  against  me. 

Ascham.  Nay,  they  are  not  much  ainiss  for  so  young  a 
girl;  and,  there  being  so  few  of  them,  I  did  not  reprove 
thee.  Half  an  hour,  I  thought,  might  have  been  spent  more 
unprofitably ;   and  I  now  shall   believe  it  firmly,  if  thou  wilt 


42  IMA  GIN  A  R  Y   CON  VE  RSA  TIONS. 

but  be  led  by  them  to  meditate  a  little  on  the  similarity  of 
situation  in  which  thou  then  wert  to  what  thou  art  now  in. 

Jane.  1  will  do  it,  and  whatever  else  you  command  ;  for 
I  am  weak  by  nature  and  very  timorous,  unless  where  a 
strong  sense  of  duty  holdeth  and  supporteth  me.  There 
God  acteth,  and  not  his  creature. 

Those  w'ere  with  me  at  sea  who  would  have  been  atten- 
tive to  me  if  I  had  seemed  to  be  afraid,  even  though 
worshipful  men  and  women  were  in  the  company;  so  that 
something  more  powerful  threw  my  fear  overboard.  Yet  I 
never  will  go  again  upon  the  water. 

Ascham.  Exercise  that  beauteous  couple,  that  mind  and 
body,  much  and  variously  :  but  at  home,  at  home,  Jane ! 
indoors,  and  about  things  indoors;  for  God  is  there  too. 
We  have  rocks  and  quicksands  on  the  banks  of  our  Thames, 
O  lady  !  such  as  ocean  never  heard  of  ;  and  many  (who 
knows  how  soon.'')  maybe  engulfed  in  the  current  under 
their  garden-walls. 

Jane.  Thoroughly  do  1  now  understand  you.  Yes, 
indeed,  I  have  read  evil  things  of  courts  ;  but  I  think 
nobody  can  go  out  bad  who  entereth  good,  if  timely  and 
true  warning  shall    ii.ive  been   given. 

Ascham.  I  see  perils  on  perils  which  thou  dost  not  see, 
alljeit  thou  art  wiser  than  thy  poor  old  master.  And  it  is 
not  because  Love  hath  blinded  thee,  for  that  surpasseth  his 
supposed  omnipotence  ;  but  it  is  l^ecause  thy  tender  heart, 
having  always  leaned  affectionately  upon  good,  hath  felt 
and  known  nothing  of  evil. 

I  once  persuaded  thee  to  reflect  mucli  :  let  me  now  per- 
suade thee  to  avoid  the  habitude  of  rejection,  to  lay  aside 
books,  and  to  gaze  carefully  and  steadfastly  on  what  is 
under  and  before  thee. 

Jafie.  I  have  well  bethought  me  of  my  duties.  Oh  how 
extensive  they  are  !    what    a   goodly  and   fair  inheritance  ! 


ROGER   ASCII  AM   AX/)    LADY  JANE    GREY.  43 

But,  tell  me,  would  you  command  me  never  more  to  read 
Cicero  and  Epictetus  and  Plutarch  and  Polybius  ?  The 
others  I  do  resign  ;  they  are  good  for  the  arbour  and  for 
the  gravel-walk :  yet  leave  unto  me,  I  beseech  you,  my 
friend  and  father,  —  leave  unto  me  for  my  fireside  and  for 
my  pillow,  —  truth,  eloquence,  courage,  constancy. 

Ascham.  Read  them  on  thy  marriage-bed,  on  thy  child- 
bed, on  thy  death-bed.  Thou  spotless,  undrooping  lily,  they 
have  fenced  thee  right  well.  These  are  the  men  for  men  : 
these  are  to  fashion  the  bright  and  blessed  creatures  whom 
God  one  day  shall  smile  upon  in  thy  chaste  bosom.  Mind 
thou  thy  husband. 

Jane.  I  sincerely  love  the  youth  who  hath  espoused  me  ; 
I  love  him  with  the  fondest,  the  most  solicitous  affection  ; 
I  pray  to  the  Almighty  for  his  goodness  and  happiness,  and 
do  forget  at  times  —  unworthy  supplicant  !  —  the  prayers  I 
should  have  offered  for  myself.  Never  fear  that  I  will  dis- 
parage my  kind  religious  teacher,  by  disobedience  to  my 
husband   in  the  most  trying  duties. 

Ascham.  Gentle  is  he,  gentle  and  virtuous  :  but  time  will 
harden  him  ;  time  must  harden  even  thee,  sweet  Jane  !  Do 
thou,  complacently  and  indirectly,  lead   him  from  ambition. 

Jane.      He  is  contented  with  me  and  with  home. 

Ascham.  Ah  Jane  !  Jane  !  men  of  high  estate  grow  tired 
of  contentedness. 

Jane.  He  told  me  he  never  liked  books  unless  I  read 
them  to  him:  I  will  read  them  to  him  every  evening;  I 
will  open  new  worlds  to  him,  richer  tlum  those  discovered 
by  the  Spaniard;  I  will  conduct  him  to  treasures — Oh 
what  treasures!—  on  which  he  may  sleep  in  innocence 
and   peace. 

Ascham.  Rather  do  thou  walk  him,  ride  with  him,  play 
with  him,  be  his  fairy,  his  page,  his  everything  that  love  and 
poetry  have   invented:   but  watch  him  well;   sport  with  his 


44  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

fancies  ;  turn  them  about  like  the  ringlets  round  his  cheek  ; 
and,  if  ever  he  meditate  on  power,  go  toss  up  thy  baby  to 
his  brow,  and  bring  back  his  thoughts  into  his  heart  by  the 
music  of  thy  discourse. 

Teach  him  to  live  unto  God  and  unto  thee ;  and  he  will 
discover  that  women,  like  the  plants  in  woods,  derive  their 
softness  and  tenderness  from  the  shade. 


VIII. 
PRINCESS  MARY  AND   PRINCESS  ELIZABETH. 

Mary.  My  dear,  dear  sister !  it  is  long,  very  long,  since 
we  met. 

Elizabeth.  Methinks  it  was  about  the  time  they  chopped 
off  our  Uncle  Seymour's  head  for  him.  Not  that  he  was 
our  uncle,  though  :  he  was  only  Edward's. 

Mary.  The  Lord  Protector,  if  not  your  uncle,  was  always 
doatingly  fond  of  you  ;  and  he  often  declared  to  me,  even 
within  your  hearing,  he  thought  you  very  beautiful. 

Elizabeth.  He. said  as  much  of  you,  if  that  is  all  ;  and 
he  told  me  why  :  "  not  to  vex  vie,''  — as  if,  instead  of  vexing 
me,  it  would  not  charm  me.  I  beseech  your  Highness  is 
there  any  thing  remarkable  or  singular  in  thinking  me  — 
what  he  thought  me  .'' 

Mary.  No,  indeed  ;  for  so  you  are.  But  why  call  me 
Hi^'hiiess,  drawing  back  and  losing  half  your  stature  in  the 
circumference  of  the  courtesy. 

Elizabeth.  Because  you  are  now,  at  this  blessed  hour, 
my  lawful  Queen. 

Mary.  Hush,  prithee,  hush!  'i'lic  I'arliament  has  voted 
otherwise. 

Elizabeth.     They  woukl  choose  you. 

Mary.     What  would  they  do  with  me  ? 


PRINCESS  MARY  AND   PRINCESS  ELIZABETH.      45 

Elizabeth.     Trump  you. 

Mary.     I  am  still  at  a  loss. 

Elizabeth.     Bamboozle  you. 

Mary.  Really,  my  clear  sister,  you  have  been  so  courted 
by  the  gallants,  that  you  condescend  to  adopt  their  lan- 
guage in  place  of  graver. 

Elizabeth.     Cheat  you,  then  :   will  that  do  ? 

Mary.     Comprehensibly. 

Elizabeth.  1  always  speak  as  the  thing  spoken  of 
requires.  To  the  point.  \\'ould  our  father  have  minded 
the  caitiffs  ? 

Mary.  Nnming  our  fatlier,  I  should  have  said,  our 
father  innu  in  bliss ;  for  surely  he  must  be,  having  been  a 
rock  of  defence  against  the  torrent  of   irreligion. 

Elizabeth.  Well  ;  in  bliss  or  out,  there,  here,  or  any- 
where, would  he,  royal  soul  !  have  minded  Parliament .-'  No 
such  fool  he.  There  were  laws  before  there  were  parlia- 
ments ;  and  there  were  kings  before  there  were  laws.  Were 
I  in  your  Majesty's  place  (God  forbid  the  thought  should 
ever  enter  my  poor  weak  head  even  in  a  dream  !)I  would 
try  the  mettle  of  my  subjects :  1  would  mount  my  horse, 
and  head  them. 

Mary.  Elizabeth,  you  were  always  a  better  horsewoman 
than  I  am  :  I  slioukl  he  ashamed  to  get  a  fall  among  the 
soldiers. 

Elizabeth.  Pish  !  pish  !  it  would  be  among  knights  and 
nobles — the  worst  come  to  the  worst.  Lord  o' mercy  !  do 
you  think  they  never  saw  such  a  thing  before  ? 

Maty.  J  must  hear  of  no  resistance  to  the  powers  that 
be.     Beside,  I  am  but  a  weak  woman. 

Elizabeth.  I  do  not  see  why  women  should  be  weak, 
unless  they  like. 

Mary.  Not  only  the  Commons,  but  likewise  the  peers, 
have  sworn  allegiance. 


46  IMAGIXARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Elizabeth.  Did  you  ever  in  your  lifetime,  in  any  chroni- 
cle or  commentary,  read  of  any  parliament  that  was  not  as 
ready  to  be  foresworn  as  to  swear  ? 

Mary.     Alas  ! 

Elizabeth.  If  ever  you  did,  the  book  is  a  rare  one,  kept 
in  an  (nit-of-the-way  library,  in  a  cedar  chest  all  to  itself, 
with  golden  locks  and  amber  seals  thereto. 

Mary.      I  would  not  willingly  think  so  ill  of  men. 

Elizabeth.  For  my  part,  I  can't  abide  'em.  All  that  can 
be  said  is,  some  are  not  so  bad  as  others.  You  smile,  and 
deem  the  speech  a  silly  and  superfluous  one.  \\'e  may  live, 
Sister  Mary,  to  see  and  acknowledge  that  it  is  not  quite  so 
sure  and  Hat  a  verity  as  it  now  appears  to  us.  I  never 
come  near  a  primrose  but  I  suspect  an  adder  under  it;  and, 
the  sunnier  the  day,  the  more  misgivings. 

Mary.  Ikit  we  are  now,  by  the  settlement  of  the  mon- 
archy, farther  out  of  harm'.s  way  than  ever. 

Elizabeth.  If  the  wench  has  children  to-morrow,  as  she 
may  have,  they  will  inherit. 

Mary.     No  doubt  they  would. 

Elizabeth.  No  doubt.''  I  will  doubt:  and  others  shall 
doubt,  too.  The  heirs  of  my  body  —  yours  first  —  God 
prosper  them  !  Parliament  may  be  constrained  to  retrace 
its  steps.  One  half  sees  no  harm  in  taking  bribes  ;  the 
otiier,  no  guilt  in  taking  fright,  ("orruption  is  odious  and 
costly ;  but,  when  people  have  yielded  to  compulsion,  con- 
science is  fain  to  acquiesce.  Men  say  they  were  forced, 
and  what  is  done  under  force  is  invalid. 

Mary.     There  is  nothing  like  compulsion.  » 

Elizabeth.  Then  let  there  be.  Let  the  few  yield  to  the 
many,  and  all  to  the  throne.  Now  is  your  time  to  stir. 
The  furnace  is  mere  smiit,  and  no  bellows  to  blow  the 
embers.  Parliament  is  without  a  leader.  Three  or  four 
turnspits  are  crouching  to  leap  upon  the  wheel;  but.  while 


PRINCESS  MARY  AND   PRINCESS  ELIZABETH.      47 

they  are  snarling  and  snapping  one  at  another,  what 
becomes  of  the  roast  ?  Take  them  Ijy  the  scuff,  and  out 
with  'em.  The  people  will  applaud  you.  They  want  bread 
within  doors,  and  honesty  without.  They  have  seen  enough 
of  partisans  and  parliaments. 

Mary.     We  cannot  do  without  one. 

Elizabeth.  Convoke  it,  then  ;  but  call  it  with  sound  of 
trumpet.  Such  a  body  is  unlikL-ly  to  find  a  head.  There  is 
little  encouragement  for  an  honest  knight  or  gentleman  to 
take  the  station.  The  Commons  slink  away  with  lowered 
shoulders,  and  bear  hateful  compunction  against  the  very 
names  and  memory  of  those  braver  men  who,  in  dangerous 
times  and  before  stern,  authoritative,  warlike  sovereigns, 
supported  their  pretensions.  Kings,  who  peradventure 
would  have  strangled  such  ringleaders,  well  remember  and 
well  respect  them  ;  their  fellows  would  disown  their  bene- 
factors and  maintainers.  Kings  abominate  their  example  ; 
clowns  would  efface  the  images  on  their  sepulchres.  What 
forbearance  on  our  part  can  such  knaves  expect,  or  what 
succor  from  the  people  ? 

Mary.     What  is  done  is  done. 

Elizabeth.  Oftentimes  it  is  easier  to  undo  than  to  do.  I 
should  rather  be  glad  than  mortified  at  what  has  been  done 
yonder.  In  addition  to  those  churls  and  chapmen  in  the 
lower  House,  there  are  also  among  the  peers  no  few  who 
voted  most  audaciously. 

Alary.  The  majority  of  them  was  of  opinion  that  the 
Lady  Jane  should  be  invested  with  royal  state  and 
dignity. 

Elizabeth.     The  majority  !  so  much  the  better,  —  so  much 
the  better,   say    I.      I    would   find   certain   folk   who   should 
make    sharp    inquest    into    their   title-deeds,   and  spell   the     ^ 
indentures  syllable  by  syllable.     Certain  lands  were  granted 
for  certain  services,  which  services  have  been  neglected.     I 


48  IMA  GIXA  R  V   CON  I  'ERSA  TIONS. 

would  not  in  such  wise  neglect  the  lands  in  question,  but 
annex  them  to  my  royal  domains. 

Mary.  Sister  !  sister !  you  forget  that  the  Lady  Jane 
Grey  (as  was)  is  now  queen  of  the  realm. 

Elizabeth.  Forget  it,  indeed  !  The  vile  woman  !  I  am 
minded  to  call  her  as  such  vile  women  are  called  out  of 
doors. 

Mary.  Pray,  abstain  ;  not  only  forasmuch  as  it  would 
be  unseemly  in  those  sweet,  slender,  delicate  lips  of  yours, 
but  also  by  reason  that  she  is  adorned  with  every  grace  and 
virtue,  bating  (which,  indeed,  outvalues  them  all)  the  true 
religion.  Sister,  1  hope  and  believe  I  in  this  my  speech  have 
given  you  no  offence  ;  for  your  own  eyes,  I  know,  are 
opened.  Indeed,  who  that  is  not  wilfully  blind  can  err  in 
so  straight  a  road,  even  if  so  gentle  and  so  sure  a  guidance 
were  wanting  ?  The  mind,  sister,  the  mind  itself,  must  be 
crooked  which  deviates  a  hair's-breadth.  Ay,  that  intelli- 
gent nod  would  alone  suffice  to  set  my  bosom  quite  at  rest 
thereupon.     Should  it  not .'' 

Elizabeth.  It  were  imprudent  in  me  to  declare  my  real 
opinion  at  this  juncture :  we  must  step  warily  when  we  walk 
among  cocatrices.  I  am  barely  a  saint,  —  indeed,  far  from 
it ;  and  I  am  much  too  young  to  be  a  martyr.  But  that 
odious  monster,  who  pretends  an  affection  for  reformation, 
and  a  reverence  for  learning,  is  counting  the  jewels  in  the 
crown,  while  you  fancy  she  is  repeating  her  prayers  or  con- 
ning her  Greek. 

Sister  Mary,  as  God  is  in  heaven,  1  IkjIcI  nothing  so  detest- 
able in  a  woman  as  hypocrisy,  —  add  thereunto,  as  you 
fairly  may,  avarice,  man-hunting,  lasciviousness.  The  least 
atom  fjf  the  least  among  these  vices  is  heavy  enough  to 
weigh  down  the  soul  to  the  bottomless  pit. 

Mary.     Unless  divine  grace  — 

Elizabeth.     Don't  talk  to  me.     Don't  spread  the  filth  fine. 


PRINCESS  MARY  AXD   PRINCESS   ELIZABETH.      49 

Now  could  not  that  empty  foul,  Dudley,  have  found  some 
other  young  person  of  equal  rank  with  Mistress  Jane,  and 
of  higher  beauty  ?  Not  that  any  other  such,  pretty  as  the 
boy  is,  would  listen  to  his  idle  discourse. 

And,  pray,  who  are  these  Dudleys  ?  The  first  of  them 
was  made  a  man  of  by  our  grandfather.  And  what  was  the 
man,  after  all  ?  Nothing  better  than  a  huge  smelting-pot, 
with  a  commodious  screw  at  the  colder  end  of  the  ladle. 

1  have  no  patience  with  the  bold  harlotry. 

Mary.      1  see  you  have  not,  sister  ! 

Elizabeth.  No,  nor  have  the  people.  They  are  on  tip-toe 
for  rising  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom. 

Alary.     What  can  they  do  ?     God  help  them  ! 

Elizabeth.  Sister  Mary  !  good  Sister  Mary  !  did  you  say, 
God  help  them'l  I  am  trembling  into  a  heap.  It  is  well 
you  have  uttered  such  words  to  safe  and  kindred  ears.  If 
they  should  ever  come  whispered  at  the  I'rivy  Council,  it 
might  end  badly. 

1  believe  my  visit  hath  been  of  as  long  continuance  as 
may  seem  belitting.      1  must  be  gone. 

Alary.  Before  your  departure,  let  me  correct  a  few  of 
your  opinions  in  regard  to  our  gentle  kinswoman  and  most 
gracious  Queen.  She  hath  nobly  enlarged  my  poor  alimony. 
Look  here  !   to  begin. 

Elizabeth.  What  !  all  golden  pieces  ?  I  have  not  ten 
groats  in  the  world. 

Alary.  Be  sure  she  will  grant  unto  you  plenteously. 
She  hath  condescended  to  advise  me  of  her  intent.  Mean- 
while, I  do  entreat  you  will  take  home  with  you  the  purse 
you  are  stroking  down,  thinking  about  other  things. 

Elizabeth.     Not  I,  not  I,  if  it  comes  from  such  a  creature. 

Alary.      You  accept  it  from  me. 

Elizabeth.  Then,  indeed,  unreservedly.  Passing  through 
your  hands,  the  soil  has  been   wiped  away.     However,  as  I 


50  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

live,  I  will  carefully  wash  every  piece  in  it  with  soap  and 
water.  Du  you  believe  they  can  lose  any  thing  of  their 
weight  thereby? 

Alary.     Nothing  material. 

Elizabeth.  1  may  reHect  and  cogitate  upon  it.  I  would 
not  fain  offer  anybody  light  money. 

Truth  !  I  fear  the  purse,  although  of  chamois  and  double 
stitched,  is  insufficient  to  sustain  the  weight  of  the  gold, 
which  must  be  shaken  violently  on  the  road  as  1  return. 
Dear  Sister  Mary,  as  you  probably  are  not  about  to  wear  that 
head-tire,  could  you,  commodiously  to  yourself,  lend  me  it 
awhile,  just  to  deposit  a  certain  part  of  the  moneys  therein? 
for  the  velvet  is  stout,  and  the  Venetian  netting  close  and 
stiff  :  1  can  hartlly  bend  the  threads.  I  shall  have  more  lei- 
sure to  admire  its  workmanship  at  home. 

Alary.  Klizabeth,  1  see  you  are  grown  forgiving.  In  the 
commencement  of  our  discourse,  1  suggested  a  slight  altera- 
tion of  manner  in  speaking  of  our  father.  Do  you  pray  for 
the  repose  of  his  soul  morning  and  night  ? 

Elizalhi/i.     The  doubt  is  injurious. 

Mary.  Pardon  me  !  1  feel  it.  Hut  the  voices  of  children, 
()  Elizabeth,  come  to  the  ear  of  God  above  all  other  voices. 
The  best  want  intercession.  Pray  for  him,  Elizabeth  ;  pray 
for  him. 

EUzahctJi.  Why  not?  He  did  indeed — but  he  was  in  a 
passion  -  order  my  nujther  up  the  three  black  stairs,  and 
he  left  her  pretty  head  on  the  landing  ;  but  I  bear  him  no 
malice  for  it. 

Alary.  Malice  !  The  baneful  word  hath  shot  up  from 
hell  in  many  places,  but  never  between  child  and  parent. 
In  the  space  of  that  one  span,  on  that  single  sod  from  Para- 
dise, the  serpent  never  trailed.  Husband  and  wife  were 
severed  by  him,  then  again  clashed  together  ;  brother  slew 
brother:    but  parent   and    child    stand   where  their   Creator 


PRINCESS  MARY  AND    PRINCESS   ELIZABETIJ.      51 

first  placed  them,  and  drink  at  the  only  source  of  pure, 
untroubled  love. 

Elizabeth.  IJesidc,  you  know,  beini;  King,  he  had  clearly 
a  right  to  do  it,  plea  or  no  plea. 

Mary.  We  will  converse  no  longer  on  so*  dolorous  a 
subject. 

Elizabeth.  I  will  converse  on  it  as  long  as  such  is  my 
pleasure. 

Mary.      Being  my  visitor,  you  command  here. 

Elizabeth.  1  command  nowhere.  I  am  blown  about  like 
a  leaf  :  I  am  yielding  as  a  feather  in  a  cushion,  only  one 
among  a  million.  IJut  I  tell  you,  honestly  and  plainly,  I  do 
not  approve  of  it,  anyhow  !  It  may  have  grown  into  a 
trick  and  habit  with  him  :  no  matter  for  that  ;  in  my  view  of 
tlie  business,  it  is  not  what  a  husband  ought  to  do  with  a 
wife.      And,  if  she  did  —  but  she  did  not  ;  and  I  say  it. 

Alary.      It  seems,  indeed,  severe. 

Elizabeth.  Yea,  afore  God,  methinks  it  smacks  a  trifle  of 
the  tart. 

Mary.  Our  father  was  God's  vicegerent.  Probably  it  is 
for  the  good  of  her  soul,  poor  lady  !  Better  suffer  here  than 
hereafter.      We  ought  to  kiss  the  rod,  and  be  thankful. 

Elizabeth.  Kiss  the  rod,  forsooth  !  I  have  been  con- 
strained erewhile  even  unto  that ;  and  no  such  a  child  nei- 
ther. l]ut  1  would  rather  have  kissed  it  fresh  and  fair,  with 
all  its  buds  and  knots  upon  it,  than  after  it  had  bestowed  on 
me,  in  such  a  roundal)out  way,  such  a  deal  of  its  embroidery 
and  lace-work.  I  thank  my  fatlier  for  all  that.  I  hope  his 
soul  lies  easier  than  my  skin  did. 

Mary.  The  wish  is  kind  ;  but  prayers  would  much  help 
it.  Our  father,  of  blessed  memory,  now  (let  us  hope)  among 
the  saints,  was  somewhat  sore  in  his  visitations ;  but  they 
tended  heavenward. 

Elizabeth.     Yea,  when  he  cursed  and  cuffed  and  kicked  us. 


52  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

j\/dry.      He  did  kick,  poor  man  ! 

Elizabeth.  Kick !  Fifty  folks,  young  and  old,  have  seen 
the  marks  his  kicking  left  behind. 

Mary.  We  should  conceal  all  such  his  infirmities.  They 
arose  from  an  irritation  in  the  foot,  whereof  he  died. 

Elizabeth.  I  only  know  I  could  hardly  dance  or  ride  for 
them ;  chiefly  caught,  as  I  was,  fleeing  from  his  wrath.  He 
seldom  vouchsafed  to  visit  me  :  when  he  did,  he  pinched 
my  ear  so  bitterly  I  was  fain  to  squeal.  And  then  he  said  I 
should  turn  out  like  my  mother  :  calling  me  by  such  a  name, 
moreover,  as  is  heard  but  about  the  kennel  ;  and  even  there 
it  is  never  given  to  the  young. 

Alary.  There  was  choler  in  him  at  certain  times  and 
seasons.  Those  who  have  much  will,  have  their  choler 
excited  when  opposite  breath  blows  against  it. 

Elizabeth.  Let  them  have  will  ;  let  them  have  choler  too, 
in  God's  name :  but  it  is  none  the  better,  as  gout  is,  for 
flying  to  hand  or  foot. 

Alary.      1  have  seen  —  now  do,  pray,  forgive  me  — 

Elizabeth.     Well,  what  have  you  seen  .'' 

Mary.  My  sweet  little  sister  lift  up  the  most  delicate  of 
all  delicate  white  hands,  and  with  their  tiny  narrow  pink 
nails  tear  off  ruffs  and  caps,  and  take  sundry  unerring  aims 
at  eyes  and  noses. 

Elizabeth.  Was  that  any  impediment  or  hindrance  to 
riding  and  dancing  ?  I  would  always  make  people  do  their 
duty,  and  always  will.  Remember  (for  your  memory  seems 
accurate  enough)  that,  whenever  I  scratched  anybody's  face, 
I  permitted  my  hand  to  be  kissed  by  the  offender  within  a 
day  or  two. 

Mary.     Undeniable. 

Elizabeth.  I  may,  peradventure,  have  been  hasty  in  my 
childhood  :  but  all  great  hearts  are  warm  ;  all  good  ones  are 
relenting.      If,   in   combing  my  hair,  the  hussy  lugged  it,  I 


PRINCESS  MARY  AND   PRINCESS  ELIZABETH.      ^7> 

obeyed  God's  command  and  referred  to  the  lex  talionis.  I 
have  not  too  much  of  it  ;  and  every  soul  on  earth  sees  its 
beauty.  A  single  one  would  be  a  public  loss.  Uncle  Sey- 
mour —  but  what  boots  it  t  There  are  others  who  can  see 
perhaps  as  far  as  Uncle  Seymour. 

Mary.  I  do  remember  his  saying  that  he  watched  its 
growth  as  he  would  a  melon's.  And  how  fondly  did  those 
little,  sharp,  gray  eyes  of  his  look  and  wink  when  you 
blushed  and  chided  his  Hattery  ! 

Elizabeth.  Never  let  any  man  dare  to  flatter  me  :  I  am 
above  it.  Only  the  weak  and  ugly  want  the  refreshment  of 
that  perfumed  fan.  1  take  but  my  own  ;  and  touch  it  who 
dares  ! 

Really,  it  is  pleasant  to  see  in  what  a  pear-form  fashion 
both  purse  and  caul  are  hanging.  Faith  !  they  are  heavy  : 
I  could  hardly  lift  them  from  the  back  of  the  chair. 

Mary.     Let  me  call  an  attendant  to  carry  them  for  you. 

Elizabeth.  Are  you  mad?  They  are  unsealed,  and 
ill-tied  :  any  one  could  slip  his  hand  in. 

And  so  that  —  the  word  was  well  nigh  out  of  my  mouth  — 
gave  you  all  this  gold  ? 

Mary.     For  shame !     Oh,  for  shame  ! 

Elizabeth.  I  feel  shame  only  for  her.  It  turns  my  cheeks 
red,  —  together  with  some  anger  upon  it.  I!ut  I  cannot  keep 
my  eyes  off  that  book  —  if  book  it  may  be  —  on  which  tlie 
purse  was  lying. 

Mary.  Somewhat  irreverently,  God  forgive  me  !  But  it 
was  sent  at  the  same  time  by  the  same  fair  creature,  with 
many  kind  words.  It  had  always  been  kept  in  our  father's 
bedroom  closet,  and  was  removed  from  Edward's  by  those 
unhappy  men  who  superintended  his  education. 

Elizabeth.  She  must  have  thought  all  those  stones  are 
garnets :  to  me  they  look  like  rubies,  one  and  all.  Yet, 
over  so  large  a  cover,  they  cannot  all  be  rubies. 


54  IMAGINARY   COXVEKSATIONS. 

Alary.  I  believe  they  are  ;  excepting  the  glory  in  the 
centre,  which  is  composed  of  chrysolites.  Our  father  was 
an  excellent  judge  in  jewelry,  as  in  every  thing  else;  and  he 
spared  no  expenditure  in  objects  of  devotion. 

Elizabeth.  What  creature  could  fail  in  devotion  with  an 
object  such  as  that  before  the  eyes  ?  Let  me  kiss  it,  — 
partly  for  my  Saviour's  and  partly  for  my  father's  sake. 

Alary.  How  it  comforts  me,  O  Elizabeth,  to  see  you  thus 
press  it  to  your  bosom  !  Its  spirit,  I  am  confident,  has 
entered  there.  Disregard  the  pebbles  :  take  it  home  ;  cher- 
ish it  evermore.  May  there  be  virtue,  as  some  think  there 
is,  even  in  the  stones  about  it.  God  bless  you,  strengthen 
you,  lead  you  aright,  and  finally  bring  you  to  ev'erlasting 
glory  ! 

Elizabeth  {goijig).     The  Popish  puss  ! 


IX. 
ESSF.X    ANT)    SPENSER. 

Spenser.  Interrogate  me,  my  lord,  that  I  may  answer  each 
question  distinctly,  my  mind  being  in  sad  confusion  at  what 
I  have  seen  and  undergone. 

Essex.  Give  me  thy  account  and  opinion  of  these  very 
affairs  as  thou  leftest  them  ;  for  I  would  rather  know  one 
part  well  than  all  imperfectly;  and  the  violences  of  which  I 
have  heard  within  the  day  surpass  belief. 

Why  weepest  thou,  my  gentle  Spenser  t  Have  the  rebels 
sacked  thy  house? 

Spenser.     They  have  plundered  and  utterly  destroyed  it. 

Essex.     I  grieve  for  thee,  and  will  see  thee  righted. 

Spenser.      In  this  they  have  little  iiarmed  me. 

Essex.  How  !  I  have  heard  it  reported  that  thy  grounds 
are  fertile,  and  thy  mansion  large  and  pleasant. 


ESSEX  AND   SPENSE/y!.  55 

Spctiscr.  If  river  and  lake  and  meadow-ground  and 
mountain  could  render  any  place  the  abode  of  pleasantness, 
pleasant  was  mine,  indeed  ! 

On  the  lovely  banks  of  Mulla  1  found  deep  contentment. 
Under  the  dark  alders  did  1  muse  and  meditate.  Innocent 
hopes  were  my  gravest  cares,  and  my  playfuUest  fancy  was 
with  kindly  wishes.  Ah  !  surely  of  all  cruelties  the  worst 
is  to  extinguish  our  kindness.  Mine  is  gone  :  I  love  the 
people  and  the  land  no  longer.  My  lord,  ask  me  not  about 
them  :    I  may  speak  injuriously. 

Essex.  Think  rather,  then,  of  thy  happier  hours  and 
busier  occupations ;   these  likewise  may  instruct  me. 

Spetiser.  The  first  seeds  I  sowed  in  the  garden,  ere  the 
old  castle  was  made  habitable  for  my  lovely  bride,  were 
acorns  from  Penshurst.  I  planted  a  little  oak  before  my 
mansion  at  the  birth  of  each  child.  My  sons,  I  said  to 
myself,  shall  often  play  in  the  shade  of  them  when  I  am 
gone ;  and  every  year  shall  they  take  the  measure  of  their 
growth,  as  fondly  as  I  take  theirs. 

Essex.  Well,  well;  but  let  not  this  thought  make  thee 
weep  so  bitterly. 

Spenser.  Poison  may  ooze  from  beautiful  plants  ;  deadly 
grief  from  dearest  reminiscences. 

I  7ui(st  grieve,  I  must  weep  :  it  seems  the  law  of  Clod, 
and  the  only  one  that  men  are  not  disposed  to  contravene. 
In  the  performance  of  this  alone  do  they  effectually  aid  one 
another. 

Essex.  Spenser!  1  wish  I  had  at  hand  any  arguments  or 
persuasions,  of  force  sufficient  to  remove  thy  sorrow  ;  but, 
really,  1  am  not  in  the  habit  of  seeing  men  grieve  at  any 
thing  except  the  loss  of  favour  at  court,  or  of  a  hawk,  or  of  a 
buck-hound.  And  were  I  to  swear  out  my  condolences  to  a 
man  of  thy  discernment,  in  the  same  round  roll-call  phrases 
we  employ  with  one  another  upon  these  occasions,  I  should 


56  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

be  guilty,  not  of  insincerity,  but  of  insolence.  True  grief 
hath  ever  something  sacred  in  it;  and,  when  it  visiteth  a 
wise  man  and  a  brave  one,  is  most  holy. 

Nay,  kiss  not  my  hand :  he  whom  God  smiteth  hath  God 
with  him.     In  his  presence  what  am  I  ? 

Spoiser.  Never  so  great,  my  lord,  as  at  this  hour,  when 
you  see  aright  who  is  greater.  May  he  guide  your  counsels, 
and  preserve  your  life  and  glory  ! 

Essex.     Where  are  thy  friends  ?     Are  they  with  thee  ? 

Spenser.  Ah,  where,  indeed !  Generous,  true-hearted 
Philip  !  where  art  thou,  whose  presence  was  unto  me 
peace  and  safety ;  whose  smile  was  contentment,  and  whose 
praise  renown  ?  My  lord  !  I  cannot  but  think  of  him  among 
still  heavier  losses  :  he  was  my  earliest  friend,  and  would 
have  taught  me  wisdom. 

Essex.  Pastoral  poetry,  my  dear  Spenser,  doth  not 
require  tears  and  lamentations.  Dry  thine  eyes  ;  rebuild 
thine  house  :  the  Queen  and  Council,  I  venture  to  promise 
thee,  will  make  ample  amends  for  every  evil  thou  hast  sus- 
tained.    What !  does  that  enforce  thee  to  wail  yet  louder  ? 

Spenser.  Pardon  me,  bear  with  me,  most  noble  heart  ! 
I  have  lost  what  no  Council,  no  Queen,  no  Essex,  can 
restore. 

Essex.  We  will  see  that.  There  are  other  swords,  and 
other  arms  to  wield  them,  beside  a  Leicester's  and  a 
Raleigh's.  Others  can  crush  their  enemies,  and  serve  their 
friends. 

Spenser.  O  my  sweet  child  !  And  of  many  so  powerful, 
many  .so  wise  and  so  beneficent,  was  there  none  to  save  thee  ? 
None  !  none  ! 

Essex.  I  now  perceive  that  thou  lamentest  what  almost 
every  father  is  destined  to  lament.  Happiness  must  be 
bought,  although  the  payment  maybe  delayed.  C'onsider; 
the  same  calamity  might  have  befallen  thee  here  in  London. 


ESSEX  AND  SPENSER.  57 

Neither  the  houses  of  ambassadors,  nor  the  palaces  of  kings, 
nor  the  altars  of  God  himself,  are  asylums  against  death. 
How  do  I  know  but  under  this  very  roof  there  may  sleep 
some  latent  calamity,  that  in  an  instant  siiall  cover  with 
gloom  every  inmate  of  the  house,  and  every  far  dependent  ? 

Spenser.     God  avert  it. 

Essex.  Every  day,  every  hour  of  the  year,  do  hundreds 
mourn  what  thou  mourncst. 

Spenser.  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  Calamities  there  are  around  us  ; 
calamities  there  are  all  over  the  earth  ;  calamities  there  are 
in  all  seasons  :  but  none  in  any  season,  none  in  any  place, 
like  mine. 

Essex.  So  say  all  fathers,  so  say  all  husbands.  Look  at 
any  old  mansion-house,  and  let  the  sun  shine  as  gloriously 
as  it  may  on  the  golden  vanes,  or  the  arms  recently  quar- 
tered over  the  gateway  or  the  embayed  window,  and  on  the 
happy  pair  that  haply  is  toying  at  it  :  nevertheless,  thou 
mayest  say  that  of  a  certainty  the  same  fabric  hatli  seen 
much  sorrow  within  its  chambers,  and  heard  many  wailings  ; 
and  each  time  this  was  the  heaviest  stroke  of  all.  Funerals 
have  passed  along  through  the  stout-hearted  knights  upon 
the  wainscot,  and  amid  the  laughing  nymphs  upon  the  arras. 
Old  servants  have  shaken  their  heads  as  if  somebody  had 
deceived  them,  when  they  found  that  beauty  and  nobility 
could  perish. 

Edmund  !  the  things  that  are  too  true  pass  by  us  as  if  tiiey 
were  not  true  at  all ;  and  when  they  have  singled  us  out,  then 
only  do  they  strike  us.  Thou  and  I  must  go  too.  Perhaps 
the  next  year  may  blow  us  away  with  its  fallen  leaves.* 

Spenser.  For  you,  my  lord,  many  years  (I  trust)  are  wait- 
ing :  1  never  shall  see  those  fallen  leaves.  No  leaf,  no  bud, 
will  spring  upon  the  earth  before  I  sink  into  her  breast 
for  ever. 

*  It  happened  so. 


58  IMAGTXARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Essex.  Thou,  who  art  wiser  than  most  men,  shouldst 
bear  with  patience,  equanimity,  and  courage  what  is  com- 
mon to  all. 

Spenser.  Enough,  enough,  enough  !  have  all  men  seen 
their  infant  burned  to  ashes  before  their  eyes? 

Essex.     Gracious  God  !     Merciful  Father  !  what  is  this  ? 

Spenser.  Burned  alive !  burned  to  ashes  !  burned  to 
ashes  !  The  flames  dart  their  serpent  tongues  through  the 
nursery-window.  I  cannot  quit  thee,  my  Elizabeth  !  I 
cannot  lay  down  our  Edmund  !  Oh,  these  flames !  They 
persecute,  they  enthrall  me  ;  they  curl  round  my  temples  ; 
they  hiss  upon  my  brain  ;  they  taunt  me  with  their  fierce, 
foul  voices  ;  they  carp  at  me,  they  wither  me,  they  consume 
me,  throwing  back  to  me  a  little  of  life  to  roll  and  sufTer  in, 
with  their  fangs  upon  me.  Ask  me,  my  lord,  the  things  you 
wish  to  know  from  me :  I  may  answer  them  ;  I  am  now 
composed  again.  Command  me,  my  gracious  lord!  I  would 
yet  serve  you  :  soon  1  shall  be  unable.  You  have  stooped 
to  raise  me  up ;  you  have  borne  with  me  ;  you  have  pitied 
me,  even  like  one  not  powerful.  You  have  brought  comfort, 
and  will  leave  it  with  me  ;  for  gratitude  is  comfort. 

Oh  !  my  memory  stands  all  a  tip-toe  on  one  burning 
point  :  when  it  drops  from  it,  then  it  perishes.  Spare  me  : 
ask  me  nothing;  let  me  weep  before  you  in  peace, ^ — the 
kindest  act  of  greatness. 

Essex.  I  should  rather  have  dared  to  mount  into  the 
midst  of  the  conflagration  than  I  now  dare  entreat  thee  not 
to  weep.  The  tenrs  that  f)verflow  thy  heart,  my  Spenser, 
will  staunch  and  heal  il  in  their  sacred  stream;  but  not 
without  hope  in  God. 

Spenser.  My  hope  in  God  is  that  I  may  soon  see  again 
what  he  has  taken  from  me.  Amid  the  myriads  of  angels, 
there  is  not  one  .so  beautiful  ;  and  even  he  (if  there  be  any) 
who    is  appointed    my  guardian   could    never    love   me  so. 


LEOFKIC  ANJ)    GODIVA.  59 

Ah !  these  are  idle  thoughts,  vain  wanderings,  distempered 
dreams.  If  there  ever  were  guardian  angels,  he  who  so 
wanted  one  —  my  helpless  boy  —  would  not  have  left  these 
arms  upon  my  knees. 

Essex.  God  help  and  sustain  thee,  too  gentle  Spenser ! 
I  never  will  desert  thee.  But  what  am  I  ?  Great  they  have 
called  me  !  Alas,  how  powerless  then  and  infantile  is  great- 
ness in  the  presence  of  calamity  ! 

Come,  give  me  thy  hand  :  let  us  walk  up  and  down  the 
gallery.  Bravely  done  !  1  will  envy  no  more  a  Sydney  or  a 
Raleigh. 

X. 

LEOFRIC  AND  GODIVA. 

Godiva.  There  is  a  dearth  in  the  land,  my  sweet  Leofric  ! 
Remember  how  many  weeks  of  drought  we  have  had,  even 
in  the  deep  pastures  of  Leicestershire  ;  and  how  many  Sun- 
days we  have  heard  the  same  prayers  for  rain,  and  suppli- 
cations that  it  would  please  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  to  turn 
aside  his  anger  from  the  poor,  pining  cattle.  You,  my  dear 
husband,  have  imprisoned  more  than  one  malefactor  for 
leaving  his  dead  ox  in  the  public  way;  and  other  hinds 
have  fled  before  you  out  of  the  traces,  in  which  they,  and 
their  sons  and  their  daughters,  and  haply  their  old  fathers 
and  mothers,  were  dragging  the  abandoned  wain  homeward. 
Although  we  were  accompanied  by  many  brave  spearmen 
and  skilful  archers,  it  was  perilous  to  pass  the  creatures 
which  the  farm-yard  dogs,  driven  from  the  hearth  by  the 
poverty  of  their  masters,  were  tearing  and  devouring;  while 
others,  bitten  and  lamed,  filled  the  air  either  with  long  and 
deep  howls  or  sharp  and  quick  barkings,  as  they  struggled 
with  hunger  and  feebleness,  or  were  exasperated  by  heat  and 
pain.  Nor  could  the  thyme  from  the  heath,  nor  the  bruised 
branches  of  the  fir-tree,  extinguisli  or  abate  the  foul  odour. 


60  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Leofric.  And  now,  Godiva,  my  darling,  thou  art  afraid 
we  should  be  eaten  up  before  we  enter  the  gates  of  Coven- 
try ;  or  perchance  that  in  the  gardens  there  are  no  roses  to 
greet  thee,  no  sweet  herbs  for  thy  mat  and  pillow. 

Godiva.  Leofric,  I  have  no  such  fears.  This  is  the 
month  of  roses  :  I  find  them  everywhere  since  my  blessed 
marriage.  They,  and  all  other  sweet  herbs,  I  know  not 
why,  seem  to  greet  me  wherever  I  look  at  them,  as  though 
they  knew  and  expected  me.  Surely  they  cannot  feel  that 
I  am  fond  of  them. 

Leofric.  O  light,  laughing  simpleton!  But  what  wouldst 
thou?  I  came  not  hither  to  pray;  and  yet  if  praying 
would  satisfy  thee,  or  remove  the  drought,  I  would  ride  up 
straightway  to  St.  Michael's  and  pray  until  morning. 

Godiva.  I  would  do  the  same,  O  Leofric  !  but  God  hath 
turned  away  his  ear  from  holier  lips  than  mine.  Would  my 
own  dear  husband  hear  me,  if  I  implored  him  for  what  is 
easier  to  accomplish,  —  what  he  can  do  like  God? 

Leofric.     How  !  what  is  it  ? 

Godiva.  I  would  not,  in  the  first  hurry  of  your  wrath, 
appeal  to  you,  my  loving  Lord,  in  behalf  of  these  unhappy 
men  who  have  offended  you. 

Leofric.     Unhappy!  is  that  all? 

Godiva.  Unhappy  they  must  surely  be,  to  have  offended 
you  so  grievously.  What  a  soft  air  breathes  over  us !  how 
quiet  and  serene  and  still  an  evening!  how  calm  are  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  !  —  Shall  none  enjoy  them;  not  even 
we,  my  Leofric?  The  sun  is  ready  to  set  :  let  it  never  set, 
O  Leofric,  on  your  anger.  These  are  not  my  words  :  they 
are  better  than  mine.  Should  they  lose  their  virtue  from 
my  unworthiness  in  uttering  them  ? 

Leofric.     Godiva,  wouldst  thou  plead  to  me  for  rebels? 

Godiva.  They  have,  then,  drawn  the  sword  against  you? 
Indeed,  I  knew  it  not. 


LEOFRIC  AND   GODIVA.  61 

Leofric.  They  have  omitted  to  send  me  my  dues,  estab- 
lished by  my  ancestors,  well  knowing  of  our  nuptials,  and 
of  the  charges  and  festivities  they  require,  and  that  in  a 
season  of  such  scarcity  my  own  lands  are  insufficient. 

Godiva.     If  they  were  starving,  as  they  said  they  were  — 

Leofric.  Must  I  starve  too  ?  Is  it  not  enough  to  lose  my 
vassals  ? 

Godiva.  Enough  ?  O  God  !  too  much  !  too  much  !  May 
you  never  lose  them  !  Give  them  life,  peace,  comfort,  con- 
tentment. There  are  those  among  them  who  kissed  me  in 
my  infancy,  and  who  blessed  me  at  the  baptismal  font. 
Leofric,  Leofric  !  the  first  old  man  I  meet  I  shall  think  is 
one  of  those  ;  and  I  shall  think  on  the  blessing  he  gave, 
and  (ah  me  !)  on  the  blessing  I  bring  back  to  him.  My  heart 
will  bleed,  will  burst ;  and  he  will  weep  at  it !  he  will  weejD, 
poor  soul,  for  the  wife  of  a  cruel  lord  who  denounces  ven- 
geance on  him,  who  carries  death  into  his  family  ! 

Leofric.     We  must  hold  solemn  festivals. 

Godiva.     We  must,  indeed. 

L^cofric.     Well,  then  .-• 

Godiva.  Is  the  clamourousness  that  succeeds  the  death  of 
God's  dumb  creatures,  are  crowded  halls,  are  slaughtered 
cattle,  festivals? — are  maddening  songs,  and  giddy  dances, 
and  hireling  praises  from  parti-coloured  coats .''  Can  the 
voice  of  a  minstrel  tell  us  better  things  of  ourselves  than 
our  own  internal  one  might  tell  us  ;  or  can  his  breath  make 
our  breath  softer  in  sleep?  O  my  beloved  !  let  e\ery  thing 
be  a  joyance  to  us  :  it  will,  if  we  will.  Sad  is  the  day,  and 
worse  must  follow,  when  we  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  gar- 
den, and  do  not  throb  with  joy.  But,  Leofric,  the  high 
festival  is  strown  by  the  servant  of  God  upon  the  heart  of 
man.  It  is  gladness,  it  is  thanksgiving ;  it  is  the  orphan, 
the  starveling,  pressed  to  the  bosom,  and  bidden  as  its  first 
commandment  to  remember  its   benefactor.     We  will  hold 


62  IMA  GIA  'ARY    CON  VERSA  TIONS. 

this  festival;  the  guests  are  ready:  we  may  keep  it  up  for 
weeks,  and  months,  and  years  together,  and  always  be  the 
happier  and  the  richer  for  it.     The  beverage  of  this  feast, 

0  Leofric,  is  sweeter  than  bee  or  flower  or  vine  can 
give  us :  it  flows  from  heaven ;  and  in  heaven  will  it 
abundantly  be  poured  out  again  to  him  who  pours  it  out 
here  unsparingly. 

Leofric.     Thou  art  wild. 

Godiva.  I  have,  indeed,  lost  myself.  Some  Power,  some 
good  kind  Power,  melts  me  (body  and  soul  and  voice)  into 
tenderness  and  love.  O  my  husband,  we  must  obey  it. 
Look  upon  me  !  look  upon  me  !  lift  your  sweet  eyes  from 
the  ground  !     I  will  not  cease  to  supplicate ;   I  dare  not. 

J.cofric.     We  may  think  upon  it. 

Godiva.  Never  say  that!  What!  think  upon  goodness 
when  you  can  be  good  ?  Let  not  the  infants  cry  for  suste- 
nance !  'I'he  mother  of  our  blessed  Lord  will  hear  them ; 
us  never,  never  afterward. 

Leofric.  Here  comes  the  Bishop  :  we  are  but  one  mile 
from  the  walls.  Why  dismountest  thou.''  no  bishop  can 
expect  it.  (iodiva  !  my  honour  and  rank  among  men  are 
huml)led  by  this.  Earl  Godwin  will  hear  of  it.  Up  !  up  ! 
The  liishop  hath  seen  it :  he  urgeth  his  horse  onward.  Dost 
thou  not  hear  him  now  upon  the  solid  turf  behind  thee  ? 

Godiva.  Never,  no,  never  will  I  rise,  O  Leofric,  until 
you  remit  this  most  impious  tax,  —  this  tax  on  hard  labour, 
on  hard  life. 

Leofric.  Turn  round  :  lo(jk  how  the  fat  nag  canters,  as 
to  the  tune  of  a  sinner's  psalm,  slow  and  hard-breathing. 
What  reason  or  right  can  the  people  have  to  complain, 
while  their  bishop's  steed  is  so  sleek  and  well  caparisoned  .'' 
Inclination  to  change,  desire  to  abolish  old  usages.  —  Up! 
up  !  for  shame  I    They  shall  smart  for  it,  idlers  !     Sir  Bishop, 

1  must  blush  for  my  young  bride. 


LEOFRIC  AND   GODIVA.  63 

Godiva.  My  husband,  my  husband!  will  you  pardon  the 
city  ? 

Leofric.  Sir  IJishop  !  I  could  not  think  you  would  have 
seen  her  in  this  pli;^lit.  Will  1  pardon  ?  Yea,  Godiva,  by 
the  holy  rood,  will  I  pardon  the  city,  when  thou  ridest  naked 
at  noontide  through  the  streets  ! 

Godiva.  O  my  dear,  cruel  Leofric,  where  is  the  heart 
you  gave  me?      It  was  not  so  :   can  mine  have  hardened  it? 

Bishop.  Earl,  thou  abashest  thy  spouse ;  she  turneth 
pale,  and  weepeth.     Lady  Godiva,  peace  be  with  thee. 

Godi'va.  Thanks,  holy  man  !  peace  will  be  with  me  when 
peace  is  with  your  city.  JJid  you  hear  my  Lord's  cruel 
word  ? 

Bishop.     I  did,  lady. 

Godiva.     Will  you  remember  it,  and  pray  against  it  ? 

Bishop.     Wilt  thoH  forget  it,  daughter  ? 

Godiva.     I  am  not  offended. 

Bishop.     Angel  of  peace  and  purity  ! 

Godiva.  But  treasure  it  up  in  your  heart :  deem  it  an 
incense,  good  only  when  it  is  consumed  and  spent,  ascend- 
ing with  prayer  and  sacrifice.     And,  now,  what  was  it? 

Bishop.  Christ  save  us  !  that  he  will  pardon  the  city 
when  thou  ridest  naked  through  the  streets  at  noon. 

Godiva.     Did  he  not  swear  an  oath  ? 

Bishop.      He  sware  by  the  holy  rood. 

Godiva.   My  Redeemer,  thou  hast  heard  it !   save  the  city  ! 

Leofric.  We  are  now  upon  the  beginning  of  the  pave- 
ment:  these  are  the  suburbs.  Let  us  think  of  feasting:  we 
may  pray  afterward  ;  to-morrow  we  shall  rest. 

Godiva.     No  judgments,  then,  to-morrow,  Leofric? 

Leofric.     None  :  we  will  carouse. 

Godiva.  The  saints  of  heaven  have  given  me  strength 
and  confidence  ;  my  prayers  are  heard  ;  the  heart  of  my 
beloved  is  now  softened. 


64  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Leofric  {aside).      Ay,  ay  —  they  shall  smart,  though. 

Godh'a.  Say,  clearest  Leofric,  is  there  indeed  no  other 
hope,  no  other  mediation  ? 

Leofric.  I  have  sworn.  Beside,  thou  hast  made  me  redden 
and  turn  my  face  away  from  thee,  and  all  the  knaves  have 
seen  it :  this  adds  to  the  city's  crime. 

Godix'a.  I  have  blushed  too,  Leofric,  and  was  not  rash 
nor  obdurate. 

Leofric.  But  thou,  my  sweetest,  art  given  to  blushing:- 
there  is  no  conquering  it  in  thee.  I  wish  thou  hadst  not 
alighted  so  hastily  and  roughly  :  it  hath  shaken  down  a 
sheaf  of  thy  hair.  Take  heed  thou  sit  not  upon  it,  lest  it 
anguish  thee.  Well  done  !  it  niingleth  now  sweetly  with  the 
cloth  of  gold  upon  the  saddle,  running  here  and  there,  as  if 
it  had  life  and  faculties  and  business,  and  were  working 
thereupon  some  newer  and  cunninger  device.  O  my  beau- 
teous Eve !  there  is  a  Paradise  about  thee  !  the  world  is 
refreshed  as  thou  movest  and  breathest  on  it.  I  cannot  see 
or  think  of  evil  where  thou  art.  I  could  throw  my  arms 
even  here  about  thee.  No  signs  for  me  !  no  shaking  of 
sunbeams  !  no  reproof  or  frown  or  wonderment.  —  I  zvill  say 
it  —  now,  then,  for  worse  —  I  could  close  with  my  kisses 
thy  half-open  lips,  ay,  and  those  lovely  and  loving  eyes,  before 
the  people. 

Godiva.  To-morrow  you  shall  kiss  me,  and  they  shall 
bless  you  for  it.  I  shall  be  very  pale,  for  to-night  f  must 
fast  and  pray. 

L.eofric.  I  do  not  hear  thee  ;  the  voices  of  the  folk  are 
so  loud  under  this  archway. 

Godiva  {to  herself).  God  help  them  !  good  kind  souls  ! 
1  hope  they  will  not  crowd  about  me  so  to-morrow.  O 
Leofric  !  could  my  name  be  forgotten,  and  yours  alone 
remembered  !  But  perhaps  my  innocence  may  save  me 
from  reproach  ;   and  how  many  as  innocent  are  in  fear  and 


THE  LADY  LISLE  AND  ELIZABETH  GAUNT.        65 

famine  !  No  eye  will  open  on  me  but  fresh  from  tears. 
What  a  young  mother  for  so  large  a  family!  Shall  my 
youth  harm  me  !  Under  God's  hand  it  gives  me  courage. 
Ah,  when  will  the  morning  come !  ah,  when  will  the  noon 
be  over  1 

The  story  of  Godiva,  at  one  of  whose  festivals  or  fairs  I  was  present 
in  my  boyhood,  has  always  much  interested  me  ;  and  I  wrote  a  poem  on 
it,  sitting,  I  remember,  by  the  square  pool  at  Rugby.  When  I  showed  it 
to  the  friend  in  whom  I  had  most  confidence,  he  began  to  scoff  at  the 
subject;  and,  on  his  reaching  the  last  line,  his  laughter  was  loud  and 
immoderate.  This  Conversation  has  brought  both  laughter  and  stanza 
back  to  me,  and  the  earnestness  with  which  I  entreated  and  imp].ored 
vn^  inax^A  7wt  to  tell  the  lads;  so  heart-strickenly  and  desperately  was  I 
ashamed.  The  verses  are  these,  if  any  one  else  should  wish  another 
laugh  at  me  :  — 

In  every  hour,  in  every  mood, 

O  lady,  it  is  sweet  and  good 
To  bathe  the  soul  in  prayer  ; 

And,  at  the  close  of  such  a  day. 

When  we  have  ceased  to  bless  and  pray, 
To  dream  on  thy  long  hair. 

May  the  peppermint  be  still  growing  on  the  bank  in  that  place! 

W.  S.  L. 


XI. 
THE  LADV   LISLE  AND  ELIZABETH  GAUNT. 

Lady  Lisle.  Madam,  I  am  confident  you  will  pardon  me  ; 
for  affliction  teaches  forgiveness. 

Elizabeth  Gait/if.  From  the  cell  of  the  condemned  we 
are  going,  unless  my  hopes  mislead  me,  where  alone  we  can 
receive  it. 

Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  lady  !  in  what  matter  or  manner 
do  you  think  you  can  have  offended  a  poor  sinner  such  as  I 
am.  Surely  we  come  into  this  dismal  place  for  our  offences  ; 
and  it  is  not  here  that  any  can  be  given  or  taken. 


66  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Lady  Lisle.  Just  now,  when  I  entered  the  prison,  I  saw 
your  countenance  serene  and  cheerful  ;  you  looked  upon 
me  for  a  time  with  an  unaltered  eye  :  you  turned  away  from 
mc,  as  1  fancied,  only  to  utter  some  expressions  of  devotion  ; 
and  again  you  looked  upon  me,  and  tears  rolled  down  your 
face.  Alas  that  1  should,  by  any  circumstance,  any  action 
or  recollection,  make  another  unhappy  !  Alas  that  1  should 
deepen  the  gloom  in  the  very  shadow  of  death  ! 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  15e  comforted  :  you  have  not  done  it. 
Grief  softens  and  melts  and  fiows  away  with  tears. 

I  wept  because  another  was  greatly  more  wretched  than 
myself^  I  wept  at  that  black  attire,  — at  that  attire  of  mod- 
esty and  of  widowhood. 

Lady  Lisle.  It  covers  a  wounded,  almost  a  broken, 
heart,- — an  unworthy  offering  to  our  blessed  Redeemer. 

Elizabeth  Gau/if.  In  his  name  let  us  now  rejoice  !  Let 
us  offer  our  prayers  and  our  thanks  at  once  together  !  We 
may  yield  up  our  souls,  perhaps,  at  the  same  hour. 

Lady  Lisle.  Is  mine  so  pure .-'  Have  I  bemoaned,  as  I 
should  have  done,  the  faults  I  have  committed  ?  Have  my 
sighs  arisen  for  the  unmerited  mercies  of  my  God  ;  and  not 
rather  for  him,  the  beloved  of  my  heart,  the  adviser  and  sus- 
tainer  I  have  lost? 

Open,  O  gates  of  Death  ! 

Smile  on  me,  approve  my  last  action  in  this  world,  O  vir- 
tuous husband  !  ()  saint  and  martyr!  my  brave,  compas- 
sionate, and  loving  Lisle. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  And  cannot  you  too  smile,  sweet  lady  ? 
Are  not  you  with  him  even  now?  Doth  body,  doth  clay, 
doth  air,  separate  and  estrange  free  spirits  ?  l!elhink  you 
of  his  gladness,  of  his  glory;  and  begin  to  partake  them. 

Oh  !  how  could  an  Englishman,  how  could  twelve,  con- 
demn to  death  ■ —  condemn  to  so  great  an  evil  as  they  thought 
it  and  may  find  it  —  this  innocent  and  helpless  widow? 


THE   LADY  LISLE   AND   ELIZABETH   GAUNT.        67 

I.ady  JJsle.  Blame  not  that  jury! — blame  not  the  jury 
which  brought  against  me  the  verdict  of  guilty.  1  was  so  : 
I  received  in  my  house  a  wanderer  who  had  fought  under 
the  rash  and  giddy  Monmouth.  He  was  hungry  and 
thirsty,  and  I  took  him  in.  My  Saviour  had  commanded, 
my  King  had  forbidden,  it. 

Yet  the  twelve  would  not  have  delivered  me  over  to 
death,  unless  the  judge  had  threatened  them  with  an  accusa- 
tion of  treason  in  default  of  it.  Terror  made  them  unani- 
mous :  they  redeemed  their  properties  and  lives  at  the 
stated  price. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  1  hope,  at  least,  the  unfortunate  man 
whom  you  received  in  the  hour  of  danger  may  avoid  his 
penalty. 

La(ty  Lisle.     Let  us  hope  it. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  J,  too,  am  imprisoned  for  the  same 
offence  ;  and  I  have  little  expectation  that  he  who  was  con- 
cealed by  me  hath  any  chance  of  happiness,  although  he 
hath  escaped.  Could  I  find  the  means  of  conveying  to  him 
a  small  pittance,  I  should  leave  the  world  the  more  com- 
fortably. 

Lady  IJsle.  Trust  in  (lod  ;  not  in  one  thing  or  another, 
but  in  all.  Resign  the  care  of  this  wanderer  to  his 
guidance. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.      He  abandoned  that  guidance. 

Laily  Lisle.  Unfortunate  !  how  can  money  then  avail 
him  ? 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  It  might  save  him  from  distress  and 
from  despair,  from  the  taunts  of  the  hard-hearted  and  from 
the  inclemency  of  the  godly. 

Lady  LJsle.  In  godliness,  O  my  friend  !  there  cannot  be 
inclemency. 

Elizabeth  Gaimt.  You  are  thinking  of  perfec.tion,  my 
dear  lady  ;  and  I  marvel  not  at  it,  for  what  else   hath  ever 


6S  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

occupied  your  thoughts  !  But  godliness,  in  almost  the  best 
of  us,  often  is  austere,  often  uncompliant  and  rigid,  — 
proner  to  reprove  than  to  pardon,  to  drag  back  or  thrust 
aside  than  to  invite  and  help  onward. 

Poor  man  !  1  never  knew  him  before  ;  1  cannot  tell  how 
he  shall  endure  his  self-reproach,  or  whether  it  will  bring 
him  to  calmer  thoughts  hereafter. 

Lady  Lisle.  1  am  not  a  busy  idler  in  curiosity  ;  nor,  if 
I  were,  is  there  time  enough  left  me  for  indulging  in  it  ;  yet 
gladly  would  I  learn  the  history  of  events,  at  the  first  appear- 
ance so  resembling  those  in  mine. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  The  person's  name  I  never  may  dis- 
close ;  which  would  be  the  worst  thing  I  could  betray  of 
the  trust  he  placed  in  me.  He  took  refuge  in  my  humble 
dwelling,  imploring  me  in  the  name  of  Christ  to  harbour  him 
for  a  season.  Food  and  raiment  were  afforded  him  unspar- 
ingly ;  yet  his  fears  made  him  shiver  through  them.  What- 
ever I  could  urge  of  prayer  and  exhortation  was  not 
wanting;  still,  although  he  prayed,  he  was  disquieted. 
Soon  came  to  my  ears  the  declaration  of  the  King,  that  his 
Majesty  would  rather  pardon  a  rebel  than  the  concealer  of  a 
rebel.  The  hope  was  a  faint  one  ;  but  it  ivas  a  hope, 
and  1  gave  it  him.  His  thanksgivings  were  now  more 
ardent,  his  prayers  more  humble,  and  oftener  repeated. 
They  did  not  strengthen  his  heart  :  it  was  unpurified  and 
unprepared  for  them.  Poor  creature  !  he  consented  with  it 
to  betray  me  ;  and  I  am  condemned  to  be  burned  alive. 
Can  we  believe,  can  we  encourage  the  hope,  that  in  his 
weary  way  through  life  he  will  find  those  only  who  will  con- 
ceal from  him  the  knowledge  of  this  execution  ?  Heavily, 
too  heavily,  must  it  weigh  on  so  irresolute  and  infirm  a 
breast. 

Let  it  not  move  you  to  weeping. 

Lady  LJsle.     It  does  not ;  oh  !  it  does  not. 


EMPRESS  CATHARINE  AND  PRINCESS  DASIIKOE.     69 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.     What,  then  ? 

Lady  Lisle.  Your  saintly  tenderness,  your  heavenly 
tranquillity. 

Elizabetli  Gaunt.  No,  no  :  abstain  !  abstain  !  It  was  1 
who  grieved  ;  it  was  I  who  doubted.  Let  us  now  be  firmer : 
we  have  both  the  same  rock  to  rest  upon.  See  !  1  shed  no 
tears. 

I  saved  his  life,  an  unprofitable  and  (I  fear)  a  joyless 
one  ;  he,  by  God's  grace,  has  thrown  open  to  me,  and  at  an 
earlier  hour  than  ever  I  ventured  to  expect  it,  the  avenue  to 
eternal  bliss. 

Lai/y  Lisle.  O  my  good  angel  !  that  bestrewest  with 
fresh  flowers  a  path  already  smooth  and  pleasant  to  me,  may 
those  timorous  men  who  have  betrayed,  and  those  misguided 
ones  who  have  persecuted,  us,  be  conscious  on  their  death- 
beds that  we  have  entered  it !  and  they  too  will  at  last  hud 
rest. 

XTT. 
THE  EMPRESS  CATHARINE  AND  PRINCESS  DASHKOF. 

Catharine.  Into  his  heart !  into  his  heart  !  If  he  escapes, 
we  perish. 

Do  you  think.  Dashkof,  they  can  hear  me  through  the 
double  door  ?      \'es  ;  hark  1  tht-y  heard  me  :  they  have  done  it. 

What  bubbling  and  gurgling  !   he  groaned  but  once. 

Listen  !  his  l)lood  is  busier  now  than  it  ever  was  before. 
I  should  not  have  thought  it  could  have  splashed  so  loud 
upon  the  floor,  although  our  bed,  indeed,  is  rather  of  the 
highest. 

Put  your  ear  against  the  lock. 

Dashkof.      I  hear  nothing. 

Catharine.  My  ears  are  ciuicker  than  yours,  and  know 
these  notes  better.     Let  me  come.  —  Hear  nothing  !      You 


70  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

did  not  wait  long  enough,  nor  with  coolness  and  patience. 
There  !  —  there  again  !  The  drops  are  now  like  lead  :  every 
half-minute  they  penetrate  the  eider-down  and  the  mattress. 
—  How  now !  which  of  these  fools  has  brought  his  dog 
with  him .'  What  tramping  and  lapping  !  the  creature  will 
carry  the  marks  all  about  the  palace  with  his  feet  and 
muzzle. 

Daslikof.     Oh,  heavens  ! 

Catharine.     Are  you  afraid  ? 

Daslikof.  There  is  a  horror  that  surpasses  fear,  and  will 
have  none  of  it.      I  knew  not  this  before. 

Catharine.  You  turn  pale  and  tremble.  You  should 
have  supported  me,  in  case  I  had  required  it. 

Dashkof.  I  thought  only  of  the  tyrant.  Neither  in  life 
nor  in  death  could  any  one  of  these  miscreants  make  me 
tremble.  But  the  husband  slain  by  his  wife  !  —  1  saw  not 
into  my  heart ;    I  looked  not  into  it,  and  it  chastises  me. 

Catharine.     Dashkof,  are  you,  then,  really  unwell  ? 

Dashkof.     What  will  Russia,  what  will  Europe,  say  ? 

Catharine.  Russia  has  no  more  voice  than  a  whale.  She 
may  toss  about  in  her  turbulence  ;  but  my  artillery  (for  now, 
indeed,  I  can  safely  call  it  mine)  shall  stun  and  quiet  her. 

Dashkof.     God  grant  — 

Catharine.  I  cannot  but  laugh  at  thee,  my  pretty  Dash- 
kof !  God  grant,  forsooth  !  He  has  granted  all  we  wanted 
from  him  at  present,  —  the  safe  removal  of  this  odious 
Peter. 

Dashkof.  Yet  Peter  loved  ivw  /  and  even  the  worst  hus- 
band must  leave,  surely,  the  recollection  of  some  sweet 
moments.  The  sternest  must  have  trembled,  both  with 
apprehension  and  with  hope,  at  the  first  alteration  in  the 
health  of  his  consort ;  at  the  first  promise  of  true  union, 
imperfect  without  progeny.  Then,  there  are  thanks  ren- 
dered together  to  heaven,  and  satisfactions  communicated, 


EMPRESS  CA  THARINE  AiV£>  PRINCESS  DASHKOF.     71 

and  infant  words  interpreted  ;  and  when  the  one  has  failed 
to  pacify  the  sharp  cries  of  babyhood,  pettish  and  impatient 
as  sovereignty  itself,  the  success  of  the  other  in  calming  it, 
and  the  unenvied  triumph  of  this  exquisite  ambition,  and 
the  calm  gazes  that  it  wins  upon  it. 

Catharine.  Are  these,  my  sweet  friend,  your  lessons  from 
the  Stoic  school  ?  Are  not  they,  rather,  the  pale-faced 
rertections  of  some  kind  epithalamiast  from  Livonia  or  Bessa- 
rabia? Come,  come  away.  I  am  to  know  nothing  at 
present  of  the  deplorable  occurrence.  Did  not  you  wish 
his  death  ? 

Dashkof.     It  is  not  his  death  that  shocks  me. 

Catharine.  I  understand  you  :  beside,  you  said  as  much 
before. 

Dashkof.      I  fear  for  your  renown. 

Catharine.     And  for  your  own  good  name,  —  ay,  Dashkof  1 

Dashkof.  He  was  not,  nor  did  I  ever  wish  him  to  be,  my 
friend. 

Catharine.     You  hated  him. 

Dashkof.      Even  hatred  may  be  plucked  up  too  roughly. 

Catharine.  Europe  shall  be  informed  of  my  reasons,  if 
she  should  ever  find  out-that  I  countenanced  the  conspiracy. 
She  shall  be  persuaded  that  her  repose  made  the  step  neces- 
sary ;  that  my  own  life  was  in  danger  ;  that  I  fell  upon  my 
knees  to  soften  the  conspirators;  that,  only  when  I  had 
fainted,  the  horrible  deed  was  done.  She  knows  alreadv 
that  Peter  was  always  ordering  new  exerci-ses  and  uniforms  ; 
and  my  ministers  can  evince  at  the  first  audience  my 
womanly  love  of  peace. 

Dashkof.  Europe  may  be  more  easily  subjugated  than 
duped. 

Catharine.      She  shall  be  both,  God  willing. 

Dashkof.  The  majesty  of  thrones  will  seem  endangered 
by  this  open  violence. 


72  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Catharine.  The  majesty  of  thrones  is  never  in  jeopardy 
by  those  who  sit  upon  them.  A  sovereign  may  cover  one 
witli  blood  more  safely  than  a  subject  can  pluck  a  feather 
out  of  the  cushion.  It  is  only  when  the  people  does  the 
violence  that  we  hear  an  ill  report  of  it.  Kings  poison  and 
stab  one  another  in  pure  legitimacy.  Do  your  republican 
ideas  revolt  from  such  a  doctrine? 

DasJikof.  I  do  not  question  this  right  of  theirs,-  and 
never  will  oppose  their  exercise  of  it.  But  if  you  prove  to 
the  people  how  easy  a  matter  it  is  to  extinguish  an  emperor, 
and  how  pleasantly  and  prosperously  we  may  live  after  it,  is 
it  not  probable  that  they  also  will  now  and  then  try  the 
experiment ;  particularly,  if  any  one  in  Russia  should  here- 
after hear  of  glory  and  honour,  and  how  immortal  are  these 
by  the  consent  of  mankind,  in  all  countries  and  ages,  in 
him  who  releases  the  world,  or  any  part  of  it,  from  a  lawless 
and  ungovernable  despot?  The  chances  of  escape  are 
many,  and  the  greater  if  he  should  have  no  accomplices.  Of 
his  renown  there  is  no  doubt  at  all  :  that  is  placed  above 
chance  and  beyond  time,  by  the  sword  he  hath  exercised  so 
righteously. 

Catharine.  True;  but  we  must  reason  like  democrats  no 
longer.  Republicanism  is  the  best  thing  we  can  have,  when 
we  cannot  iiave  power;  but  no  one  ever  held  the  two 
together.      I  am  now  autocrat. 

Dashkof.  Truly,  then,  may  1  congratulate  you.  The 
dignity  is  the  highest  a  mortal  can  attain. 

Catharine.      I  know  and  feel  it. 

Dashkof.      \  wish  you  always  may. 

Catharine.  I  doubt  not  the  stability  of  power  :  I  can 
make  constant  both  fortime  and  love.  My  Dashkof  smiles 
at  this  conceit :  she  has  here  the  same  advantage,  and  does 
not  envy  her  friend  even  the  autocracy. 

Dashkof.     Indeed  I  do,  and  most  heartily. 


EMPKESS  CA  TIIAKINE  AND  PRINCESS  DASIJKOF.    73 

Catharine.      How  ? 

Dashkof.  I  know  very  well  what  those  intended  who 
first  composed  the  word  ;  but  they  blundered  egregiously. 
In  spite  of  them,  it  signifies  power  over  oneself,  —  of  all 
power  the  most  enviable,  and  the  least  consistent  with  power 
over  others. 

I  hope  and  trust  there  is  no  danger  to  you  from  any  member 
of  the  council-board  inflaming  the  guards  or  other  soldiery. 

Catharine.  The  members  of  the  council-board  did  not  sit 
at  it,  but  upoji  it  ;  and  their  tactics  were  performed  cross- 
legged.  What  partisans  are  to  be  dreaded  of  that  com- 
mander-in-chief whose  chief  command  is  over  pantaloons 
and  facings,  whose  utmost  glory  is  perched  on  loops  and 
feathers,  and  who  fancies  that  battles  are  to  be  won  rather 
by  pointing  the  hat  than  the  cannon  ? 

Dashkof.  Peter  was  not  insensible  to  glory;  few  men 
are  :  but  wiser  heads  than  his  have  been  perplexed  in  the 
road  to  it,  and  many  have  lost  it  by  their  ardour  to  attain  it. 
I  have  always  said  that,  unless  we  devote  ourselves  to  the 
public  good,  we  may  perhaps  be  celebrated ;  but  it  is 
beyond  the  power  of  fortune,  or  even  of  genius,  to  exalt  us 
above  the  dust. 

Catharine.  Dashkof,  you  are  a  sensible,  sweet  creature ; 
but  rather  too  romantic  on  principh\  and  rather  too  visionary 
on  glory.  1  shall  always  both  esteem  and  love  you  ;  but  no 
Other  woman  in  Europe  will  be  great  enough  to  endure  you, 
and  you  will  really  put  the  men  hors  t/e  eonibat.  Thinking 
is  an  enemy  to  beauty,  and  no  friend  to  tenderness.  Men 
can  ill  brook  it  one  in  another ;  in  women  it  renders  them 
what  they  would  fain  call  "scornful"  (vain  assumption  of 
high  prerogative !)  and  what  you  would  find  bestial  and 
outrageous.  As  for  my  reputation,  which  I  know  is  dear  to 
you,  I  can  purchase  all  the  best  writers  in  Europe  with  a 
snuffbox  each,   and   all  the    remainder  with    its    contents. 


74  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Not  a  gentleman  of  the  Academy  but  is  enchanted  by  a 
toothpick,  if  I  deign  to  send  it  him.  A  brilliant  makes  me 
Semiramis  ;  a  watch-chain,  Venus  ;  a  ring,  Juno.  Voltaire  is 
my  friend. 

Dashkof.     He  was  Frederick's. 

Catharine.  I  shall  be  the  Pucelle  of  Russia.  No  !  I  had 
forgotten  :  he  has  treated  her  scandalously. 

Dashkof.  Does  your  Majesty  value  the  flatteries  of  a 
writer  who  ridicules  the  most  virtuous  and  .glorious  of  his 
nation ;  who  crouched  before  that  monster  of  infamy, 
Louis  XV.  ;  and  that  worse  monster,  the  king  his  prede- 
cessor ?  He  reviled,  with  every  indignity  and  indecency, 
the  woman  who  rescued  France  :  and  who  alone,  of  all  that 
ever  led  the  armies  of  that  kingdom,  made  its  conquerors 
—  the  English  —  tremble.  Its  monarchs  and  marshals 
cried  and  ran  like  capons,  flapping  their  fine  crests  from 
wall  to  wall,  and  cackling  at  one  breath  defiance  and  sur- 
render. The  village  girl  drew  them  back  into  battle,  and 
placed  the  heavens  themselves  against  the  enemies  of 
Charles.  She  seemed  supernatural  :  the  English  recruits 
deserted  ;  they  would  not  fight  against  God. 

Catharme.     Fools  and  bigots  ! 

Dashkof.  The  whole  world  contained  none  other,  except- 
ing those  who  fed  upon  them.  The  Maid  of  Orleans  was 
pious  and  sincere  :  her  life  asserted  it :  her  death  confirmed 
it.  Glory  to  her,  Catharine,  if  j'ou  love  glory.  Detestation 
to  him  who  has  profaned  the  memory  of  this  most  holy 
martyr,  —  the  guide  and  avenger  of  her  king,  the  redeemer 
and  saviour  of  her  country. 

Catharhie.  Be  it  so ;  but  Voltaire  buoys  me  up  above 
some  impertinent,  troublesome  qualms. 

Dashkof.  If  Deism  had  been  prevalent  in  Europe,  he 
would  have  been  the  champion  of  Christianity  \  and,  if  the 
French  had  been  Protestants,    he   would    have    shed  tears 


£A//'A'£SS  CA  THARINE  AND  PRINCESS  DASIIKOF.    75 

upon  the  papal  slipper.  He  buoys  up  no  one  ;  for  he  gives 
no  one  hope.  He  may  amuse  :  dulness  itself  must  be 
amused,  indeed,  by  the  versatility  and  brilliancy  of  his  wit. 

Catharifie.  While  I  was  meditating  on  the  great  action 
I  have  now  so  happily  accomplished,  I  sometimes  thought 
his  wit  feeble.  This  idea,  no  doubt,  originated  from  the 
littleness  of  every  thing  in  comparison  with  my  undertaking. 

Dashkof.  Alas  !  we  lose  much  when  we  lose  the  capacity 
of  being  delighted  by  men  of  genius,  and  gain  little  when 
we  are  forced  to  run  to  them  for  incredulity. 

Cathari)ic.  1  shall  make  some  use  of  my  philosopher  at 
Ferney.  I  detest  him  as  much  as  you  do  ;  but  where  will 
you  find  me  another  who  writes  so  pointedly?  You  really, 
then,  fancy  that  people  care  for  truth?  Innocent  Dashkof  ! 
Believe  me,  there  is  nothing  so  delightful  in  life  as  to  find  a 
liar  in  a  person  of  repute.  Have  you  never  heard  good 
folks  rejoicing  at  it?  Or,  rather,  can  you  mention  to  me 
any  one  who  has  not  been  in  raptures  when  he  could  com- 
municate such  glad  tidings  ?  The  goutiest  man  would  go 
on  foot  without  a  crutch  to  tell  his  friend  of  it  at  midnight ; 
and  would  cross  the  Neva  for  the  purpose,  when  he  doubted 
whether  the  ice  would  bear  him.  Men,  in  general,  are  so 
weak  in  truth,  that  they  are  obliged  to  put  their  bravery 
under  it  to  prop  it.  Why  do  they  pride  themselves,  think 
you,  on  their  courage,  when  the  bravest  of  them  is  by  many 
degrees  less  courageous  than  a  mastiff-bitch  in  the  straw  ? 
It  is  only  that  they  may  be  rogues  without  hearing  it,  and 
make  their  fortunes  without  rendering  an  account  of  them. 

Now  we  chat  again  as  we  used  to  do.  Your  spirits  and 
your  enthusiasm  have  returned.  Courage,  my  sweet  Dash- 
kof ;  do  not  begin  to  sigh  again.  We  never  can  want 
husbands  while  we  are  young  and  lively.  Alas  !  I  cannot 
always  be  so.  Heigho  !  But  serfs  and  preferment  will  do  : 
none  shall  refuse  me  at  ninety,  —  Paphos  or  Tobolsk. 


76  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Have  not  you  a  song  for  me  ? 

Dashkof.     German  or  Russian  ? 

Catharme.  Neither,  neither.  Some  frightful  word  might 
drop  —  might  remind  me  —  no,  nothing  shall  remind  me. 
French,  rather :   French  songs  are  the  liveliest  in  the  world. 

Is  the  rouge  off  my  face  ? 

Dashkof.  It  is  rather  in  streaks  and  mottles ;  excepting 
just  under  the  eyes,  where  it  sits  as  it  should  do. 

Catharine.  I  am  heated  and  thirsty :  I  cannot  imagine 
how.  I  think  we  have  not  yet  taken  our  coffee.  Was  it  so 
strong.?  What  am  I  dreaming  of  ?  I  could  eat  only  a  slice 
of  melon  at  breakfast ;  my  duty  urged  me  then,  and  dinner 
is  yet  to  come.  Remember,  I  am  to  faint  at  the  midst  of  it 
when  the  intelligence  comes  in,  or  rather  when,  in  despite 
of  every  effort  to  conceal  it  from  me,  the  awful  truth  has 
flashed  upon  my  mind.  Remember,  too,  you  are  to  catch 
me,  and  to  cry  for  help,  and  to  tear  those  fine  flaxen  hairs 
which  we  laid  up  together  on  the  toilet  ;  and  we  are  both 
to  be  as  inconsolable  as  we  can  be  for  the  life  of  us.  Not 
now,  child,  not  now.  Come,  sing.  I  know  not  how  to  fill 
up  the  interval.  Two  long  hours  yet !  —  how  stupid  and  tire- 
some !  I  wish  all  things  of  the  sort  could  be  done  and  be 
over  in  a  day.  They  are  mightily  disagreeable  when  by 
nature  one  is  not  cruel.  People  little  know  my  character. 
1  have  the  tenderest  heart  upon  earth.  I  am  courageous, 
but  I  am  full  of  weaknesses.  I  possess  in  perfection  the 
higher  part  of  men,  and  -  to  a  friend  I  may  say  it  —  the 
most  amiable  part  of  women.  Ho,  ho!  at  last  you  smile: 
now,  your  thoughts  upon  that. 

Dashkof.      I  have  heard  fifty  men  swear  it. 

Catharine.  They  lied,  the  knaves  !  I  hardly  knew  them 
by  sight.  We  were  talking  of  the  sad  necessity.  —  Ivan 
must  follow  next  :  he  is  heir  to  the  throne.  I  have  a  wild, 
impetuous,  pleasant  \\\.\\^  protege.,  who  shall  attempt  to  rescue 


JOHN  OF  GAUNT  AND  JOANNA    OF  KENT.  77 

him.  1  will  have  him  persuaded  and  incited  to  it,  and 
assured  of  pardon  on  the  scaffold.  He  can  never  know  the 
trick  we  play  him ;  unless  his  head,  like  a  bottle  of  Bor- 
deaux, ripens  its  contents  in  the  sawdust.  Orders  are  given 
that  Ivan  be  dispatched  at  the  fust  disturbance  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  castle  ;  in  short,  at  the  fire  of  the  sentry.  But 
not  now,  —  another  time  :  two  such  scenes  together,  and 
without  some  interlude,  would  perplex  people. 

1  thought  we  spoke  of  singing  :  do  not  make  me  wait,  my 
dearest  creature  !  Now  cannot  you  sing  as  usual,  without 
smoothing  your  dove's-throat  with  your  handkerchief,  and 
taking  off  your  necklace  ?  Give  it  me,  then  ;  give  it  me. 
I  will  hold  it  for  you  :   I  must  play  with  something. 

Sing,  sing  ;  I  am  quite  impatient. 

xirr. 

JOHN  OF  GAUNT  AND  JOANNA  OF  KENT. 

Joanna.  How  is  this,  my  cousin,  that  you  are  besieged 
in  your  own  house,  by  the  citizens  of  London .''  I  thought 
you  were  their  idol. 

Gaunt.  If  their  idol,  madam,  I  am  one  which  they  may 
tread  on  as  they  list  when  down  ;  \)w\.  which,  by  my  soul 
and  knighthood  !  the  ten  best  battle-axes  among  them  shall 
find  it  hard  work  to  unshrine. 

Pardon  me  :  I  have  no  right  perhaps  to  take  or  touch 
this  hand  ;  yet,  my  sister,  bricks  and  stones  and  arrows  are 
not  presents  fit  for  you.  Let  me  conduct  you  some  paces 
hence. 

Joanna.  I  will  speak  to  those  below  in  the  street.  Quit 
my  hand  :   they  shall  obey  me. 

Gaunt.  If  you  intend  to  order  my  death,  madam,  your 
guards  who  have  entered  my  court,  and  whose  spurs  and 
halberts    I    hear    upon    the    staircase,    may    overpower  my 


78  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

domestics  ;  and,  seeing  no  such  escape  as  becomes  my  dig- 
nity, I  submit  to  you.  Beiiold  my  sword  at  your  feet  ! 
Some  formalities,  f  trust,  will  be  used  in  the  proceedings 
against  me.  Entitle  me,  in  my  attainder,  not  John  of  Gaunt, 
not  Duke  of  Lancaster,  not  King  of  Castile  ;  nor  commem- 
orate my  father,  the  most  glorious  of  princes,  the  vanquisher 
and  pardoner  of  the  most  powerful  ;  nor  style  me,  what 
those  who  loved  or  who  flattered  me  did  when  I  was  hap- 
pier, cousin  to  the  Fair  Maid  of  Kent.  Joanna,  those  days 
are  over  !  But  no  enemy,  no  law,  no  eternity  can  take  away 
from  me,  or  move  further  off,  my  affinity  in  blood  to  the 
conqueror  in  the  field  of  Crecy,  of  Poitiers,  and  Najora. 
Edward  was  my  brother  when  he  was  but  your  cousin  :  and 
the  edge  of  my  shield  has  clinked  on  his  in  many  a  battle. 
Yes,  we  were  ever  near,  —  if  not  in  worth,  in  danger. 

Joanna.  Attainder  !  God  avert  it !  Duke  of  Lancaster, 
what  dark  thought — alas!  that  the  Regency  should  have 
known  it  !  I  came  hither,*  sir,  for  no  such  purpose  as  to 
ensnare  or  incriminate  or  alarm  you. 

These  weeds  might  surely  have  protected  me  from  the 
fresh  tears  you  have  drawn  forth. 

Gaunt.  Sister,  be  comforted  !  this  visor,  too,  has  felt 
them. 

Joanna.  O  my  Edward  !  my  own  so  lately !  Thy  mem- 
ory—  thy  beloved  image—  which  never  hath  abandoned 
me,  makes  me  bold  :  I  dare  not  say  "generous  ;"  for  in  say- 
ing it  I  should  cease  to  be  so,  -  and  who  could  be  called 
generous  by  the  side  of  thee  ?  I  will  rescue  from  perdition 
the  enemy  of  my  son. 

Cousin,  you  loved  your  brother.  Love,  then,  what  was 
dearer  to  him  than  his  life  :  protect  what  he,  valiant  as  you 
have  seen  him,  cannot  !  'I'he  father,  who  foiled  so  many, 
hath  left  no  enemies ;  the  innocent  child,  who  can  injure  no 
one,  finds  them. 


JOHN  OF  GAUNT  AND  JOANNA    OF  KENT.  79 

Why  have  you  unlaced  and  laid  aside  your  visor?  Do 
not  expose  your  body  to  those  missiles.  Hold  your  shield 
before  yourself,  and  step  aside.  I  need  it  not.  I  am 
resolved  — 

Gaunt.  On  what,  my  cousin  .^  Speak,  and  by  the  Lord  ! 
it  shall  be  done.  This  breast  is  your  shield ;  this  arm  is 
mine. 

Joanna.  Heavens!  who  could  have  hurled  those  masses 
of  stone  from  below  ?  they  stunned  me.  Did  they  descend 
all  of  them  together  ;  or  did  they  split  into  fragments  on 
hitting  the  pavement  ? 

Gaunt.  Truly,  I  was  not  looking  that  way  :  they  came,  I 
must  believe,  while  you  were  speaking. 

Joanna.  Aside,  aside  !  further  back  I  disregard  me ! 
Look  !  that  last  arrow  sticks  half  its  head  deep  in  the  wain- 
scot.    It  shook  so  violently  I  did  not  see  the  feather  at  first. 

No,  no,  Lancaster !  I  will  not  permit  it.  Take  your 
shield  up  again  ;  and  keep  it  all  before  you.  Now  step 
aside  :  1  am  resolved  to  prove  whether  the  people  will  hear 
me. 

Gaunt.     Then,  madam,  by  your  leave  — 

Joanna.  Hold  !  forbear  !  Come  hither  !  hither,  —  not 
forward. 

Gaunt.  Villains  !  take  back  to  your  kitchen  those  spits 
and  skewers  that  you  forsooth  would  fain  call  swords  and 
arrows  ;  and  keep  your  bricks  and  stones  for  your  graves  ! 

Joanna.  Imprudent  man  !  who  can  save  you  ?  I  shall 
be  frightened  :   I  must  speak  at  once. 

O  good  kind  people  !  ye  who  so  greatly  loved  me,  when  I 
am  sure  I  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  it,  have  I  (unhappy 
me  !)  no  merit  with  you  now,  when  I  would  assuage  your 
anger,  protect  your  fair  fame,  and  send  you  home  contented 
with  yourselves  and  me  ?  Who  is  he,  worthy  citizens,  whom 
ye  would  drag  to  slaughter  .'' 


so  IMA  C/XA  A- )  ■   CON  VERS  A  TIONS. 

True,  indeed,  he  did  revile  some  one.  Neither  I  nor  you 
can  say  whom,  —  some  feaster  and  rioter,  it  seems,  who  had 
litllc  rii;ht  (he  thought)  to  carry  sword  or  bow,  and  who,  to 
show  it,  hath  slunk  away.  And  then  another  raised  his 
anger :  he  was  indignant  that,  under  liis  roof,  a  woman 
should  be  exposed  to  stoning.  Which  of  you  would  not  be 
as  choleric  in  a  like  affront?  In  the  house  of  which  among 
you,  should  I  not  be  protected  as  resolutely  "i 

No,  no  :  I  never  can  believe  those  angry  cries.  Let  none 
ever  tell  me  again  he  is  the  enemy  of  my  son,  of  his  king, 
your  darling  child,  Richard.  Are  your  fears  more  lively 
than  a  poor  weak  female's  ?  than  a  mother's  'i  yours,  whom 
he  hath  so  often  led  to  victory,  and  praised  to  his  father, 
naming  each,  —  he,  John  of  Gaunt,  the  defender  of  the 
helpless,  the  comforter  of  the  desolate,  the  rallying  signal  of 
the  desperately  brave  ! 

Retire,  Duke  of  Lancaster  !     This  is  no  time  — 

Gaunt.  Madam,  I  obey;  but  nut  thrf)Ugh  terror  of  that 
puddle  at  the  house-door,  which  my  handful  of  dust  would 
dry  up.      1  )eign  to  command  me  ! 

Joanna.      In  the  name  of  my  son,  then,  retire  ! 

Gaunt.     Angelic  goodness  !    I  must  fairly  win  it. 

Joanna.  I  think  I  know  his  voice  that  crieth  out,  "Who 
will  answer  for  him  ?  "  An  honest  and  loyal  man's,  one  who 
would  counsel  and  save  me  in  any  ditificulty  and  danger. 
With  what  pleasure  and  satisfaction,  with  what  perfect  joy 
and  confidence,  do  f  answer  our  right-trusty  and  well- 
judging  friend  ! 

"Let  Lancaster  bring  his  sureties,"  say  you,  "and  we 
separate."  A  moment  yet  before  we  separate  ;  if  I  might 
delay  you  so  long,  to  receive  your  sanction  of  those  sureties  : 
for,  in  such  grave  matters,  it  would  ill  become  us  to  be  over- 
hasty.  I  could  bring  fifty,  I  could  bring  a  hundred,  not 
from  among  soldiers,  not  from  among  courtiers  :  but  selected 


JOHN  OF  GAUNT  AND  JOANNA    OF  KENT.  SI 

from  yourselves,  were  it  equitable  and  fair  to  show  such 
partialities,  or  decorous  in  the  parent  and  guardian  of  a 
king  to  offer  any  other  than  herself. 

Raised  by  the  iiand  of  the  Almighty  from  amidst  you, 
but  still  one  of  you,  if  the  mother  of  a  family  is  a  part  of 
it,  here  I  stand  surety  for  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancas- 
ter, for  his  loyalty  and  allegiance. 

Gaunt  {i-unniiig  toward  Joanna').  Are  the  rioters,  then, 
bursting  into  the  chamber  through  the  windows  ?  « 

Joanna.  The  windows  and  doors  of  this  solid  edifice 
rattled  and  shook  at  the  people's  acclamation.  My  word  is 
given  for  you  :  this  was  theirs  in  return.  Lancaster  !  what 
a  voice  have  the  people  when  they  speak  out  !  It  shakes 
me  with  astonishment,  almost  with  consternation,  while  it 
establishes  the  throne  :  what  must  it  be  when  it  is  lifted  up 
in  vengeance  ! 

GaiPif.      Wind;   vapour  — 

Joanna.  Which  none  can  wickl  nor  hold.  Need  I  say 
this  to  my  cousin  of  Lancaster  ? 

Gaunt.      Rather   say,   madam,    that   there  is  always  one 
star  above  which  can  tranquillize  and  control  them. 
Joanna.     Go,  cousin  !   another  time  more  sincerity  ! 

Gaunt.  You  have  this  day  saved  my  life  from  the  people  ; 
for  I  now  see  my  danger  better,  when  it  is  no  longer  close 
before  me.     My  Christ !   if  ever  I  forget  — 

Joanna.  Swear  not :  every  man  in  England  hath  sworn 
what  you  would  swear.  Ijut  if  you  abandon  my  Richard, 
my  brave  and  beautiful  child,  may — Oh!  1  could  never 
curse,  nor  wish  an  evil  ;  but,  if  you  desert  him  in  the 
hour  of  need,  you  will  think  of  those  who  have  not  deserted 
you,  and  your  own  great  heart  will  lie  heavy  on  you, 
Lancaster  ! 

Am  I  graver  than  I  ought  to  be,  that  you  look  dejected  ? 
Come,  then,  gentle  cousin,  lead  me  to  my  horse,  and  accom- 


82  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

pany  me  home.  Richard  will  embrace  us  tenderly.  Every 
one  is  dear  to  every  other  upon  rising  out  fresh  from  peril ; 
affectionately  then  will  he  look,  sweet  boy,  upon  his  mother 
and  his  uncle  !  Never  mind  how  many  questions  he  may 
ask  you,  nor  how  strange  ones.  His  only  displeasure,  if  he 
has  any,  will  be  that  he  stood  not  against  the  rioters  or 
among  them. 

Ganiif.  Older  than  he  have  been  as  fond  of  mischief, 
antl  as  iickle  in  the  choice  of  a  party. 

I  shall  tell  him  that,  coming  to  blows,  the  assailant  is 
often  in  the  right ;  that  the  assailed  is  always. 


XIV. 
TANCREDI  AND  CONSTANTIA. 

Consta7itia.  Is  this  in  mockery,  sir.?  Do  you  place  me 
under  a  canopy,  and  upon  what  (no  doubt)  you  presume  to 
call  a  throne,  for  derision  ? 

Tancrcdi.  Madonna,  if  it  never  were  a  throne  before, 
henceforward  let  none  approach  it  but  with  reverence.  The 
greatest,  the  most  virtuous,  of  queens  and  empresses  (it 
were  indecorous  in  such  an  inferior  as  1  am  to  praise  in 
your  presence  aught  else  in  you  that  raises  men's  admira- 
tion) leaves  a  throne  for  homage  wherever  she  has  rested. 

Constaiitia.  Count  Tancredi !  your  past  conduct  ill  accords 
with  your  present  speech.  Your  courtesy,  great  as  it  is, 
would  have  been  much  greater,  if  you  yourself  had  taken  me 
captive,  and  had  not  turned  your  horse  and  rode  back,  on 
purpose  that  villanous  hands  might  seize  me. 

Tancredi.  Knightly  hands  (I  speak  it  with  all  submis- 
sion) are  not  villanous.  I  could  not  in  my  heart  command 
you  to  surrender ;  and  I  would  not  deprive  a  brave  man,  a 
man  distinguished  for  deference  and  loyalty,  of  the  pleasure 


TANCREDI  AND    CONSTAXI'IA.  ^l 

he  was  about  to  enjoy  in  encountering  your  two  barons.      I 
am  confident  he  never  was  discourteous. 

Constantia.  He  was  ;  he  took  my  horse's  bridle  by  the 
bit,  turned  his  back  on  me,  and  would  not  let  me  go. 

Tancredi.  War  sometimes  is  guilty  of  such  enormities, 
and  even  worse. 

Constantia.  I  would  rather  have  surrendered  myself  to 
the  most  courageous  knight  in  Italy. 

Tancredi.      Which  may  that  be.'' 

Constantia.  By  universal  consent,  Tancredi,  Count  of 
Lecce. 

Tancredi.  To  possess  the  highest  courage  is  but  small 
glory  ;  to  be  without  it  is  a  great  disgrace. 

Constantia.  Loyalty,  not  only  to  ladies,  but  to  princes,  is 
the  true  and  solid  foundation  of  it.  Count  of  Lecce  !  am  I 
not  the  daughter  of  your  king  1 

Tancredi.  I  recognise  in  the  Lady  Constantia  the 
daughter  of  our  late  sovereign  lord,  King  William,  of  glo- 
rious memory. 

Constantia.     Recognise,  then,  your  Queen. 

Tancredi.  Our  laws,  and  the  supporters  of  these  laws, 
forbid  it. 

Constantia.  Is  that  memory  a  glorious  one,  as  you  call 
it,  which  a  single  year  is  sufficient  to  erase  ?  And  did  not 
my  father  nominate  me  his  heir  ? 

T'ancredi.  A  kingdom  is  not  among  the  chattels  of  a 
king.  A  people  is  paled  within  laws,  and  not  within  parks 
and  chases  :  the  powerfullest  have  no  privilege  to  sport  in 
that  enclosure.  The  barons  of  the  realm  and  the  knights 
and  the  people  assembled  in  Palermo,  and  there  by  accla- 
mation called  and  appointed  me  to  govern  the  State.  Cer- 
tainly, the  Lady  Constantia  is  nearer  to  the  throne  in  blood, 
and  much  worthier  :  I  said  so  then.  The  unanimous  reply 
was,  that  Sicily  should  be  independent  of  all  other  lands, 


84  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

and  that  neither  German  kings  nor  Roman  emperors  should 
control  her. 

Constantia.  Vou  must  be  aware,  sir,  that  an  armed 
resistance  to  the  Emperor  is  presumptuous  and  traitorous. 

Tancredi.  He  has  carried  fire  and  sword  into  my  coun- 
try, and  has  excited  the  Genoese  and  Pisans  —  men  speaking 
the  same  language  as  ourselves  —  to  debark  on  our  coasts, 
to  demolish  our  villages,  and  to  consume  our  harvests. 

Consta/itia.  Being  a  sovereign,  he  possesses  the  un- 
doubted right. 

Tancredi.  Being  a  Sicilian,  1  have  no  less  a  right  to 
resist  him. 

Constantia.      Right  .-•      Do  rights  appertain  to  vassals? 

Tancndi.  Even  to  them;  and  this  one  particularly.  Were 
I  still  a  vassal,  I  should  remember  that  I  am  a  king  by 
election,  by  birth  a  Sicilian,  and  by  descent  a  Norman. 

Constantia.  All  these  fine  titles  give  no  right  whatever  to 
the  throne,  from  which  an  insuperable  bar  precludes  you. 

lamyrdi.  What  bar  can  there  be  which  in\-  sword  and  my 
people's  love  are  unable  to  bear  down  ? 

Constantia.      Excuse  my  answer. 

Taticredi.  Deign  me  one,  1  entreat  you.  Madonna; 
although  the  voice  of  my  country  may  be  more  persuasive 
with  me  even  than  yours. 

Constantia.  Count  Lecce,  you  are  worthy  of  all  honour, 
excepting  that  alone  which  can  spring  only  from  lawful 
descent. 

Ta?icrcdi.  My  father  was  the  first-born  of  the  Norman 
conqueror,  King  of  Sicily;  my  mother,  in  her  own  right, 
(Countess  of  Lecce.  I  have  no  reason  to  blush  at  my  birth; 
nor  did  ever  the  noble  breast  which  gave  me  nourishment 
heave  with  a  sense  of  ignominy  as  she  pressed  me  to  it. 
She  thought  the  blessing  of  the  poor  equivalent  to  the 
blessing  of  the  priest. 


TANCREDI  AND    CONSTANTTA.  85 

Constantia.  I  would  not  refer  to  her  ungently  ;  but  she 
by  her  alliance  set  at  nought  our  Holy  Father. 

Tancredi.  In  all  her  paths,  in  all  her  words  and  actions, 
she  obeyed  him. 

Constantia.     Our  Holy  Father  .? 

Tancredi.  Our  holiest,  our  only  holy  one,  —  "  our  Father 
which  art  in  heaven."  She  wants  no  apology  :  precedent 
is  nothing  ;  but  remember  our  ancestors  —  I  say  ours;  for 
1  glory  in  the  thought  that  they  are  the  same,  and  so  near. 
Among  the  early  dukes  of  Normandy,  vanquishers  of 
France,  and  (what  is  greater)  conquerors  of  England,  fewer 
were  born  within  the  pale  of  wedlock  than  without.  Never- 
theless, the  ladies  of  our  nation  were  always  as  faithful  to 
love  and  duty  as  if  hoods  and  surplices  and  psalms  had 
gone  before  them,  and  the  Church  had  been  the  vestibule  to 
the  bedchamber. 

Constantia.  My  cousin  the  Countess  was  irreproachable,  and 
her  virtues  have  rendered  you  as  popular  as  your  exploits. 

Who  is  this  pretty  boy,  who  holds  down  his  head  so,  with 
the  salver  in  his  hand  ? 

Tancredi.     He  is  my  son. 

Constantia.     Why,  then,  does  he  kneel  before  me  'i 

Tancredi.     To  teach  his  father  his  duty. 

Constantia.     You  acknowledge  the  rights  of  my  husband  ? 

Tancredi.     To  a  fairer  possession  than  fair  Sicily. 

Constantia.      I  must  no  longer  hear  this  language. 

Tancredi.  I  utter  it  from  the  depths  of  a  heart  as  pure  as 
the  coldest. 

Constantia  {to  the  l>oy).  Yes,  my  sweet  child,  I  accept  the 
refreshments  you  have  been  holding  so  patiently  and  present 
so  gracefully.  l!ut  you  should  have  risen  from  your  knees: 
such  a  posture  is  undue  to  a  captive. 

Boy.  Papa  !  what  did  the  lady  say  .?  Do  you  ever  make 
ladies  captives  ? 


86  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

{To  Constantia.)  Run  away  !  I  will  hold  his  hands  for 
him. 

Cofistafitia.  I  intend  to  run  away  ;  but  you  are  quite  as 
dangerous  as  your  father.  Count,  you  must  name  my 
ransom. 

Tancredi.  Madonna,  I  received  it  when  you  presented 
your  royal  hand  to  my  respectful  homage.  The  barons  who 
accompanied  you  are  mounted  at  the  door,  in  order  to 
reconduct  you  ;  and  the  most  noble  and  the  most  venerable 
of  mine  will  be  proud  of  the  same  permission. 

Constantia.  I  also  am  a  Sicilian,  Tancredi  !  I  also  am 
sensible  to  the  glories  of  the  Norman  race.  Never  shall 
my  husband,  if  I  have  any  influence  over  him,  be  the  enemy 
of  so  courteous  a  knight.  I  could  almost  say,  Prosper  ! 
prosper  !  for  the  defence,  the  happiness,  the  example,  of  our 
Sicily. 

Tancredi.  We  may  be  deprived  of  territory  and  power, 
but  never  of  knighthood.  The  brave  alone  can  merit  it ; 
the  brave  alone  can  confer  it  ;  the  recreant  alone  can  lose 
it.  So  long  as  there  is  Norman  blood  in  my  veins,  I  am  a 
knight ;  and  our  blood  and  our  knighthood  are  given  us  to 
defend  the  sex.  —  Insensate!  I  had  almost  said  the 
weaker  !  and  with  your  eyes  before  me  ! 

Constantia.     He  cannot  be  a  rebel,  nor  a  false,  bad  man. 

Tancredi.  Lady,  the  sword  which  I  humbly  lay  at  your 
feet  was,  a  few  years  ago,  a  black  misshapen  mass  of  metal : 
the  gold  that  surrounds  it,  the  jewel  that  surmounts  it,  the 
victories  it  hath  gained,  constitute  now  its  least  value  ;  it 
owes  the  greatest  to  its  position. 


THE  MAID    OF  ORLEANS  AND  AGNES  SOREL.      87 

XV. 
THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS  AND  AGNES  SOREL. 

Agnes.  If  a  boy  could  ever  be  found  so  beautiful  and  so 
bashful,  I  should  have  taken  you  for  a  boy  about  fifteen 
years  old.  Really  and  without  flattery,  1  think  you  very 
lovely. 

Jeanne.     I  hope  I  shall  be  greatly  more  so. 

Agnes.  Nay,  nay  :  do-  not  expect  to  improve,  except  a 
little  in  manner.  Manner  is  the  fruit,  blushes  are  the  blos- 
som :  these  must  fall  off  before  the  fruit  sets. 

Jeanne.  By  God's  help,  I  may  be  soon  more  comely  in 
the  eyes  of  men. 

Agnes.  Ha,  ha !  even  in  piety  there  is  a  spice  of  vanity. 
The  woman  can  only  cease  to  be  the  woman  when  angels 
have  disrobed  her  in  Paradise. 

Jean7ie.  I  shall  be  far  from  loveliness,  even  in  my  own 
eyes,  until  I  execute  the  will  of  God  in  the  deliverance  of 
his  people. 

Agnes.     Never  hope  it. 

Jea7me.  The  deliverance  that  is  never  hoped,  seldom 
comes.     We  conquer  by  hope  and  trust. 

Agnes.  Be  content  to  have  humbled  the  proud  islanders. 
Oh,  how  I  rejoice  that  a  mere  child  has  done  so  ! 

Jeanne.  A  child  of  my  age,  or  younger,  chastised  the 
Philistines,  and  smote  down  the  giant  their  leader. 

Agnes.  But  Talbot  is  a  giant  of  another  mould:  his  will 
is  immoveable ;  his  power  is  irresistible  ;  his  word  of  com- 
mand is.  Conquer. 

Jeanne.  It  shall  be  heard  no  longer.  The  tempest  of 
battle  drowns  it  in  English  blood. 

Agnes.  Poor  simpleton  !  The  English  will  recover  from 
the  stupor  of  their  fright,  believing  thee  no  longer  to  be  a 


88  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

sorceress.  Did  ever  sword  or  spear  intimidate  them  ? 
Hast  thou  never  heard  of  Crecy  ?  Hast  thou  never  heard 
of  Agincourt  ?  Hast  thou  never  heard  of  Poitiers,  where 
the  chivalry  of  h'rante  was  utterly  vanquished  by  sick  and 
starving  men,  one  against  five  ?  The  French  are  the  eagle's 
plume  ;  the  English  are  his  talon. 

Jeanne.     The  talon  and  the  plume  shall  change  places. 

Agnt's.     Too  confident  ! 

Jeanne.      O  lady  !   is  any  one  too  confident  in  God  .' 

Agnes.  We  may  mistake  his  guidance.  Already,  not 
only  the  whole  host  of  the  English,  but  many  of  our  wisest 
and  most  authoritative  Churchmen,  believe  you  on  their 
consciences  to  act  under  the  instigation  of  Satan. 

Jeanne.  What  country  or  what  creature  has  the  Evil  One 
ever  saved?  With  what  lias  he  tempted  me.'' — with 
reproaches,  with  scorn,  with  weary  days,  with  slumberless 
nights,  with  doubts,  distrusts,  and  dangers,  with  absence 
from  all  who  cherish  me,  with  immodest,  soldierly  language, 
and  perhaps  an  untimely  and  a  cruel  death. 

Agnes.      But  you  are  not  afraid. 

Jeanne.  Healthy  and  strong,  yet  always  too  timorous,  a 
few  seasons  ago  I  fled  away  from  the  lowings  of  a  young 
steer,  if  lie  ran  opposite;  I  awaited  not  the  butting  of  a 
full-grown  kid  ;  the  barking  of  a  house-dog  at  our  neigh- 
bour's gate  turned  me  pale  as  ashes  ;  and  (shame  ui)on  me !) 
I  scarcely  dared  kiss  the  child,  when  he  called  on  me  with 
burning  tongue  in  the  pestilence  of  a  fever. 

^Ignes.  No  wonder!  A  creature  in  a  fever!  what  a 
frightful  thing  !  • 

Jeanne.      It  would  be,  were  it  not  so  piteous. 

Agnes.     And  did  you  kiss  it?    Did  you  really  kiss  the  lips? 

Jeanne.     I  fancied  mine  would  refresh  them  a  little. 

Agnes.  And  did  they?  I  should  have  thought  mine 
could  do  but  trifling  good  in  such  cases. 


THE   MAID    OF  ORLEANS  AND   AGNES  SOREL.      89 

Jeajine.  Alas  !  when  I  believed  1  had  quite  cooled  them, 
it  was  death  had  done  it. 

Agnes.     Ah  !  this  is  courage. 

Jeanne.  The  courage  of  the  weaker  sex,  inherent  in  us 
all,  but  as  deficient  in  me  as  in  any  until  an  infant  taught 
me  my  duty  by  its  cries.  Yet  never  have  1  quailed  in  the 
front  of  the  fight,  where  I  directed  our  ranks  against  the 
bravest.  God  pardon  me,  if  I  err  !  but  I  believe  his  Spirit 
flamed  within  my  breast,  strengthened  my  arm,  and  led  me 
on  to  victory. 

Agnes.  Say  not  so,  or  they  will  burn  thee  alive,  poor 
child  ! 

Why  fallest  thou  before  me  ?  I  have  some  power,  indeed  ; 
but  in  this  extremity  I  could  little  help  thee  :  the  priest 
never  releases  the  victim. 

What !  how  !  thy  countenance  is  radiant  with  a  heavenly 
joy  :  thy  humility  is  like  an  angel's  at  the  feet  of  God  ;  I 
am  unworthy  to  behold  it. 

Rise,  Jeanne,  rise  ! 

Jeanne.  Martyrdom  too  !  The  reward  were  too  great  for 
such  an  easy  and  glad  obedience.  France  will  become  just 
and  righteous ;  France  will  praise  the  Lord  for  her 
deliverance. 

Agnes.  Sweet  enthusiast !  I  am  confident,  T  am  certain. 
of  thy  innocence. 

Jeanne.     O  Lady  Agnes  ! 

Agnes.  Why  fixest  thou  thy  eyes  on  me  so  piteously  1 
Why  sobbest  thou,  —  thou,  to  whom  the  representation  of 
an  imminent  death  to  be  apprehended  for  thee  left 
untroubled,  joyous,  exulting?     Speak  ;  tell  me. 

Jeanne.  I  must.  This  also  is  commanded  me.  You 
believe  me  innocent? 

Agnes.  In  trntli.  I  do  ;  wh}',  then,  look  abashed?  Alas  ! 
alas  !  could  1  mistake  the  reason  ?     I   spoke  of  innocence  ! 


90  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Leave  me,  leave  me.  Return  another  time.  Follow  thy 
vocation. 

Jeanne.  Agnes  Sorel  !  be  thou  more  than  innocent,  if 
innocence  is  denied  thee.  In  the  name  of  the  Almighty,  I 
call  on  thee  to  earn  his  mercy. 

Agnes.     I  implore  it  incessantly,  by  day,  by  night. 

Jeanne.  Serve  him  as  thou  mayest  best  serve  him  ;  and 
thy  tears,  I  promise  thee,  shall  soon  be  less  bitter  than 
those  which  are  dropping  on  this  jewelled  hand,  and  on  the 
rude  one  which  has  dared  to  press  it. 

Agnes.     What  can  I,  —  what  can  1  do  .'' 

Jeanne.     Lead  the  King  back  to  his  kingdom. 

Agnes.     The  King  is  in  France. 

Jeanne.     No,  no,  no  ! 

Agnes.     Upon  my  word  of  honour. 

Jeanne.  And  at  such  a  time,  O  Heaven  !  in  idleness  and 
sloth  ? 

Agnes.  Indeed,  no.  He  is  busy  (this  is  the  hour)  in 
feeding  and  instructing  two  young  hawks.  Could  you  but 
see  the  little  miscreants,  how  they  dare  to  bite  and  claw  and 
tug  at  him  !  He  never  hurts  or  scolds  them  for  it;  he  is  so 
good-natured  :  he  even  lets  them  draw  blood  ;  he  is  so  very 
brave  ! 

Running  away  from  France!  Who  could  have  raised 
such  a  report  ?  Indeed,  he  is  here.  He  never  thought  of 
leaving  the  country  ;  and  his  affairs  are  becoming  more  and 
more  prosperous  ever  since  the  battle.  Can  you  not  take  my 
asseverations?     Must  I  say  it?  he  is  now  in  this  very  house. 

Jeanne.  Then,  not  in  I'"rance.  In  France,  all  love  their 
country.  Others  of  our  kings,  old  men  tell  us,  have  been 
captives ;  but  less  ignominiously.  Their  enemies  have 
respected  their  misfortunes  and  their  honour. 

Agnes.  The  English  have  always  been  merciful  and 
generous. 


THE  MAID    OF  ORLEANS  AND   AGNES  SOREL.      91 

Jeanne.     And  will  you  be  less  generous,  less  merciful  ? 

Agnes.     I  ? 

Jeanne.     You  ;  the  beloved  of  Charles. 

Agnes.  This  is  too  confident.  No,  no,  do  not  draw 
back  ;  it  is  not  too  confident :  it  is  only  too  reproachful. 
But  your  actions  have  given  you  authority.  I  have,  never- 
theless, a  right  to  demand  of  you  what  creature  on  earth  I 
have  ever  treated  ignominiously  or  unkindly. 

Jeanne.     Your  beloved  ;  your  King. 

Agnes.     Never.      I  owe  to  him  all  I  have,  all  I  am. 

Jcafine.  Too  true  !  But  let  him  in  return  owe  to  you,  O 
Lady  Agnes,  eternal  happiness,  eternal  glory.  Condescend 
to  labour  with  the  humble  handmaiden  of  the  Lord,  in  fixing 
his  throne  and  delivering  his  people. 

Agnes.     I  cannot  fight  ;   I  abominate  war. 

Jeanne.     Not  more  than  I  do ;  but  men  love  it. 

Agnes.     Too  much. 

Jeatine.  Often  too  much,  for  often  unjustly.  But  when 
God's  right  hand  is  visible  in  the  vanguard,  we  who  are 
called  must  follow. 

Agnes.      I  dare  not ;   indeed,  I  dare  not. 

Jeanne.  You  dare  not?  —  you  who  dare  withhold  the 
King  from  his  duty  ! 

Agnes.  We  must  never  talk  of  their  duties  to  our 
princes. 

Jeanne.  Then,  we  omit  to  do  much  of  our  own.  It  is 
now  mine  ;  but,  above  all,  it  is  yours. 

Agnes.  There  are  learned  and  religious  men  who  might 
more  properly. 

Jeanne.  Are  these  learned  and  religious  men  in  the 
court }  Pray  tell  me  :  since,  if  they  are,  seeing  how  poorly 
they  have  sped,  I  may  peradventure,  however  unwillingly, 
however  blamably,  abate  a  little  of  my  reverence  for  learn- 
ing, and  look  for  pure  religion  in  lower  places. 


92  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Agnes.  They  are  modest  ;  and  they  usually  ask  of  me  in 
what  manner  they  may  best  please  their  master. 

/eannc.  They  believe,  then,  that  your  affection  is  propor- 
tional to  tlie  power  you  possess  over  him.  I  have  heard 
complaints  that  it  is  usually  quite  the  contrary.  But  can 
such  great  men  be  loved  ?  And  do  you  love  him  ?  Wliy 
do  you  sigh  so  ? 

Agnes.  Life  is  but  sighs;  and,  when  they  cease,  'tis 
over. 

Jeanne.  Now  deign  to  answer  me  :  do  you  truly  love 
him .'' 

Agnes.     From  my  soul,  and  above  it. 

Jeanne.     Then,  save  him  ! 

Lady,  I  am  grieved  at  your  sorrow,  although  it  will  here- 
after be  a  source  of  joy  unto  you.  The  purest  water  runs 
from  the  hardest  rock.  Neither  worth  nor  wisdom  come 
without  an  effort :  and  patience  and  piety  and  salutary 
knowledge  spring  up  and  ripen  from  under  the  harrow  of 
afliiction.  Before  there  is  wine  or  there  is  oil,  the  grape 
must  be  trodden  and  the  olive  must  be  pressed. 

I  see  you  are  framing  in  your  heart  the  resolution. 

Agnes.     My  heart  can  admit  nothing  but  his  image. 

Jeanne.     It  must  fall  thence  at  last. 

Agnes.  Alas  !  alas  !  Time  loosens  man's  affections.  I 
may  become  unworthy.  In  the  sweetest  flower  there  is 
much  that  is  not  fragrance,  and  which  transpires  when  the 
freshness  has  passed  away. 

Alas,  if  he  should  ever  cease  to  love  me  ! 

Jeatuie.     Alas,  if  God  should  ! 

Agnes.  Then,  indeed,  he  might  afflict  me  with  so  grievous 
a  calamity. 

Jeanne.     And  none  worse  after  ? 

Agnes.      What  can  there  be  ? 

O  Heaven  !  mercy  !  mercy  ! 


THE   MAID    OF  ORLEANS  AND   AGNES  SOREL.      93 

Jeanne.     Resolve  to  earn  it :  one  hour  suffices. 

Agnes.     I  am  lost.     Leave  me,  leave  me. 

Jeanne.  Do  we  Feave  the  lost  t  Are  they  beyond  our 
care  ?     Remember  who  died  for  them,  and  them  only. 

Agnes.  You  subdue  me.  Spare  me  :  1  would  only  collect 
my  thoughts. 

Jeanne.  Cast  them  away.  Fresh  herbage  springs  from 
under  the  withered.  Be  strong  ;  and,  if  you  love,  be  gener- 
ous. Is  it  more  glorious  to  make  a  captive  than  to  redeem 
one  ? 

Agnes.  Is  he  in  danger.?  Oh  !  —  you  see  all  things  — 
is  he  t  is  he  .?   is  he  } 

Jeatine.      From  none  but  you. 

Agnes,  (jod,  it  is  evident,  has  given  to  thee  alone  the 
power  of  rescuing  both  him  and  France.  He  has  bestowed 
on  thee  the  mightiness  of  virtue. 

Jeanne.  Believe,  and  prove  thy  belief,  that  he  has  left  no 
little  of  it  still  in  thee. 

Agnes.  When  we  have  lost  our  chastity,  we  have  lost  all, 
in  his  sight  and  in  man's.  But  man  is  unforgiving  ;  God  is 
merciful. 

Jeanne.  I  am  so  ignorant,  1  know  only  a  part  of  my 
duties  :  yet  those  which  my  Maker  has  taught  me  I  am  ear- 
nest to  perform.  He  teaches  me  that  divine  love  has  less 
influence  over  the  heart  than  human  ;  He  teaches  me  that  it 
ought  to  have  more  ;  tinally,  He  commands  me  to  announce 
to  thee,  not  His  anger,  but  His  will. 

Agnes.  Declare  it;  Oh!  declare  it.  I  do  believe  His 
holy  word  is  deposited  in  thy  bosom. 

Jeanne.  Encourage  the  King  to  lead  his  vassals  to  the 
field. 

Agnes.     When  the  season  is  milder. 

Jeaime.     And  bid  him  leave  you  for  ever. 

Agnes.     Leave    me !    one    whole    campaign  !  one    entire 


94  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

summer  !  Oh,  anguish  !  it  sounded  in  my  ears  as  if  you 
said,  "for  ever." 

Jeanne.     I  say  it  again. 

Agnes.     Thy  power  is  superhuman  ;   mine  is  not. 

Jeanne.  It  ought  to  be,  in  setting  God  at  defiance.  The 
mightiest  of  the  angels  rued  it. 

Agnes.     We  did  not  make  our  hearts. 

Jeanne.     But  we  can  mend  them. 

Agnes.     Oh  !  mine  (God  knows  it)  bleeds. 

Jeanne.  Say  rather  it  expels  from  it  the  last  stagnant 
drop  of  its  rebellious  sin.  Salutary  pangs  may  be  pain- 
fuller  than  mortal  ones. 

Agnes.  Bid  him  leave  me !  wish  it !  permit  it !  think  it 
near!  believe  it  ever  can  be!  Go,  go.  —  I  am  lost 
eternally. 

Jea)ine.     And  Charles  too. 

Agnes.  Hush  !  hush  !  What  has  he  done  that  other 
men  have  not  done  also  ? 

Jeanne.  He  has  left  undone  what  others  do.  Other  men 
fight  for  tiieir  country. 

I  always  thought  it  was  pleasant  to  the  young  and  beauti- 
ful to  see  those  they  love  victorious  and  applauded.  Twice 
in  my  lifetime  I  have  been  present  at  wakes,  where  prizes 
were  contended  for,  —  what  prizes  1  quite  forget  ;  certainly 
not  kingdoms.  The  winner  was  made  happy  ;  but  there 
was  one  made  happier.  Village  maids  love  truly  :  ay,  they 
love  glory  too  ;  and  not  their  own.  The  tenderest  heart 
loves  best  the  courageous  one  :  the  gentle  voice  says,  "  Why 
wert  thou  so  hazardous  ?  "  The  deeper-toned  replies,  "  For 
thee,  for  thee." 

Agnes.  But  if  the  saints  of  heaven  are  offended,  as  I 
fear  they  may  be,  it  would  be  presumptuous  in  the  King  to 
expose  his  person  in  battle  until  we  have  supplicated  and 
appeased  them. 


THE  MAID    OF  ORLEANS  AND  AGNES  SOREL.      95 

Jeanne.  One  hour  of  self-denial,  one  hour  of  stern  exertion 
against  the  assaults  of  passion,  outvalues  a  life  of  prayer. 

Agnes.  Prayer,  if  many  others  will  pray  with  us,  can  do 
all  things.  I  will  venture  to  raise  up  that  arm  which  has 
only  one  place  for  its  repose  ;  I  will  steal  away  from  that 
undivided  pillow,  fragrant  with  fresh  and  unextinguishable 
love. 

Jeanne.     Sad  earthly  thoughts  ! 

Agnes.  You  make  them  sad ;  you  cannot  make  them 
earthly.  There  is  a  divinity  in  a  love  descending  from  on 
hififh,  in  theirs  who  can  see  into  the  heart  and  mould  it  to 
their  will. 

Jeanne.     Has  man  that  power  ? 

Agnes.     Happy,  happy  girl  !  to  ask  it,  and  unfeignedly. 

Jeanne.     Be  happy  too. 

Ag7ies.     How .''  how  ? 

Jeanne.  By  passing  resolutely  through  unhappiness.  It 
must  be  done. 

Agnes.  I  will  throw  myself  on  the  pavement,  and  pray 
until  no  star  is  in  the  heavens.     Oh,  I  will  so  pray,  so  weep  ! 

Jeanne.  Unless  you  save  the  tears  of  others,  in  vain  you 
shed  your  own. 

Agnes.     Again  I  ask  you,  What  can  I  do  ? 

Jeanne.  When  God  has  told  you  what  you  ought  to  do, 
he  has  already  told  you  what  you  can. 

Agnes.     I  will  think  about  it  seriously. 

Jeanne.  Serious  thoughts  are  folded  up,  chested,  and 
unlooked-at :  lighter,  like  dust,  settle  all  about  the  cham- 
ber. The  promise  to  think  seriously  dismisses  and  closes 
the  door  on  the  thought.  Adieu  !  God  pity  and  pardon 
you.  Through  you  the  wrath  of  Heaven  will  fall  upon  the 
kingdom. 

Agnes.  Denouncer  of  just  vengeance,  recall  the  sen- 
tence 1     I  tremble  before  that  countenance  severely  radiant : 


96  IMA  GIXA  R  \ '   COX  I  'EKSA  TIONS. 

1  sink  amid   that  calm,   more  appalling    than    the    tempest. 

Look  not  into  my  heart  with  those  gentle  eyes  !     Oh,   how 

they  penetrate  !     They  ought  to  see  no  sin  :  sadly  must  it 

pain  them. 

Jeanne.  Think  not  of  me  ;  pursue  thy  destination  ;  save 
France. 

Agnes  {after  a  long  pause).  Glorious  privilege  !  divine 
appointment  !  Is  it  thus,  O  my  Redeemer,  my  crimes  are 
visited  ? 

Come  with  me,  blessed  Jeanne  !  come  instantly  with  me 
to  the  King  :  come  to  him  whom  thy  virtue  and  valour  have 
rescued. 

Jeanne.  Not  now  ;  nor  ever  with  thee.  Again  1  shall 
behold  him,  —  a  conqueror  at  Orleans,  a  king  at  Rheims. 
Regenerate  Agnes  !  be  this  thy  glory,  if  there  be  any  that  is 
not  God's. 

XVI. 

BO.SSUET  AND  THE  DUCHESS   DE   FONTANGES.* 

Bossuet.  Mademoiselle,  it  is  the  King's  desire  that  I 
compliment  you  on  the  elevation  you  have  attained. 

Fonfanges.  O  monseigncur,  I  know  very  well  what  you 
mean.  His  Majesty  is  kind  and  polite  to  everybody.  The 
last  thing  he  said  to  me  was,  "  Angelique  !  do  not  forget  to 
compliment  Monseigneur  the  Bishop  on  the  dignity  I  have 
conferred  upon  liim,  of  almoner  to  the  I  )auphiness.  I 
desired  the  appointment  for  him  only  that  he  might  be  of 
rank  sufficient  to  confess  you,  now  you  are  Duchess.  Let 
him  be  your  confessor,  my  little  girl.     He  has  fine  manners." 

Bossuet.  I  dare  not  presume  to  ask  you,  mademoiselle, 
what  was  your  gracious  reply  to  the  condescension  of  our 
royal  master. 

*  The  Abbe  de  Choisy  says  that  she  was  "■  belle  comfnc  uti  ange,  mais 
sotte  comme  nn  punier." 


BOSSUET  AND    THE   DUCHESS  DE  EONTANGES.     97 

I'ontaiigcs.  Oh,  yes  !  you  may.  I  told  him  I  was  almost 
sure  1  should  be  ashamed  of  confessing  such  naughty  things 
to  a  person  of  high  rank,  who  writes  like  an  angel. 

Bossiiet.  The  observation  was  inspired,  mademoiselle,  by 
your  goodness  and  modesty. 

Fontanges.  You  are  so  agreeable  a  man,  monseigneur,  1 
will  confess  to  you,  directly,  if  you  like. 

Bossuet.  Have  you  brought  yourself  to  a  proper  frame 
of  mind,  young  lady  ? 

Fontanges.     What  is  that } 

Bossuet.     Do  you  hate  sin  ? 

I'ontanges.     Very  much. 

Bossuet.     Are  you  resolved  to  leave  it  off  ? 

Fontanges.  1  have  left  it  off  entirely  since  the  King 
began  to  love  me.  1  have  never  said  a  spiteful  word  of 
anybody  since. 

Bossuet.  In  your  opinion,  mademoiselle,  are  there  no 
other  sins  than  malice  ? 

Fontanges.  I  never  stole  any  thing  ;  I  never  committed 
adultery  ;  I  never  coveted  my  neighbour's  wife  ;  I  never 
killed  any  person,  though  several  have  told  me  they  should 
die  for  me. 

Bossuet.      Vain,  idle  talk  !      Did  you  listen  to  it  ? 

Fontanges.  Indeed  I  did,  with  both  ears  ;  it  seemed  so 
funny. 

Bossuet.     You  have  something  to  answer  for.  then. 

Fontanges,  No,  indeed,  I  have  not,  monseigneur.  1  have 
asked  many  times  after  them,  and  found  they  were  all  alive  ; 
which  mortified  me. 

Bossuet.   So,  then  !  you  would  really  have  them  die  for  you  ? 

Fontanges.  Oh,  no,  no  !  but  I  wanted  to  see  whether 
they  were  in  earnest,  or  told  me  fibs  ;  for,  if  they  told  me 
fibs,  I  would  never  trust  them  again.  I  do  not  care  about 
them  ;  for  the  King  told  me  I  was  only  to  mind  /lim. 


98  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Bossuet.  Lowest  and  highest,  we  all  owe  to  his  Majesty 
our  duty  and  submission. 

Fontaiiges.  I  am  sure  he  has  mine  :  so  you  need  not 
blame  me  or  question  me  on  that.  At  first,  indeed,  when 
he  entered  the  folding-doors,  I  was  in  such  a  flurry  I  could 
hear  my  heart  beat  across  the  chamber  ;  by  degrees  I  cared 
little  about  the  matter  ;  and  at  last,  when  I  grew  used  to  it, 
I  liked  it  rather  than  not.  Now,  if  this  is  not  confession, 
what  is  ? 

Bossuet.  We  must  abstract  the  soul  from  every  low 
mundane  thought.     Do  you  hate  the   world,  mademoiselle  .'' 

Fontangcs.  A  good  deal  of  it :  all  Picardy,  for  example, 
and  all  Sologne  ;  nothing  is  uglier,  —  and,  oh  my  life  !  what 
frightful  men  and  women  ! 

Bossuet.  I  would  say,  in  plain  language,  do  you  hate  the 
flesh  and  the  Devil  ? 

Fontanges.  Who  does  not  hate  the  Devil  ?  If  you  will  hold 
my  hand  the  wliile,  I  will  tell  him  so.  —  I  hate  you,  beast  ! 
There  now.  As  for  flesh,  I  never  could  bear  a  fat  man. 
Such  people  can  neither  dance  nor  hunt,  nor  do  anything 
that  I  know  of. 

Bossuet.  Mademoiselle  Marie-Angelique  de  Scoraille  de 
Rousille,  Duchess  de  Fontanges  !  do  you  hate  titles  and 
dignities  and  yourself .'' 

Fontatiges.  Myself  !  does  any  one  hate  me  .''  Why  should 
I  be  the  first  ?  Hatred  is  the  worst  thing  in  the  world  :  it 
makes  one  so  very  ugly. 

Bossuet.  To  love  God,  we  must  hate  ourselves.  We 
must  detest  our  bodies,  if  we  would  save  our  souls. 

Fontanges.  That  is  hard  :  how  can  I  do  it  ?  I  see  noth- 
ing so  detestable  in  mine.  Do  you  ?  To  love  is  easier.  I 
love  God  whenever  I  think  of  him,  he  has  been  so  very 
good  to  me  ;  but  I  cannot  hate  myself,  if  I  would.  As  God 
hath  not  hated  me,  why  should  I  .^     Beside,  it  was  he  who 


BOSSUET  AND    THE   DUCHESS  DE   FONTANGES.     99 

made  the  King  to  love  me  ;  for  I  heard  you  say  in  a  sermon 
that  the  hearts  of  kings  are  in  his  rule  and  governance.  As 
for  titles  and  dignities,  I  do  not  care  much  about  them  while 
Mis  Majesty  loves  me,  and  calls  me  his  Angelique.  They 
make  people  more  civil  about  us  ;  and  therefore  it  must  be 
a  simpleton  who  hates  or  disregards  them,  and  a  hypocrite 
who  pretends  it.  1  am  glad  to  be  a  duchess.  Manon  and 
Lisette  have  never  tied  my  garter  so  as  to  hurt  me  since,  nor 
has  the  mischievous  old  La  Grange  said  anything  cross  or 
bold  :  on  the  contrary,  she  told  me  what  a  fine  colour  and 
what  a  plumpness  it  gave  me.  Would  not  you  rather  be  a 
duchess  than  a  waiting-maid  or  a  nun,  if  the  King  gave  you 
your  choice  ''. 

Bossuct.  Pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  I  am  confounded  at 
the  levity  of  your  question. 

Fontanges.     I  am  in  earnest,  as  you  see. 

Bossuct.  Flattery  will  come  before  you  in  other  and 
more  dangerous  forms  :  you  will  be  commended  for  excel- 
lences which  do  not  belong  to  you  ;  and  this  you  will  find 
as  injurious  to  your  repose  as  to  your  virtue.  An  ingenu- 
ous mind  feels  in  unmerited  praise  the  bitterest  reproof.  If 
you  reject  it,  you  are  unhappy  ;  if  you  accept  it,  you  are 
undone.  The  compliments  of  a  king  are  of  themselves 
sufficient  to  pervert  your  intellect. 

Fontanges.  There  you  are  mistaken  twice  over.  It  is 
not  my  person  that  pleases  him  so  greatly:  it  is  my  spirit, 
my  wit,  my  talents,  my  genius,  and  that  very  thing  which 
you  have  mentioned  —  what  was  it?  my  intellect.  He  never 
complimented  me  the  least  upon  my  beauty.  Others  have 
said  that  I  am  the  most  beautiful  young  creature  under 
heaven  ;  a  blossom  of  Paradise,  a  nymph,  an  angel ;  worth  (let 
me  whisper  it  in  your  ear  —  do  I  lean  too  hard  ?)  a  thousand 
Montespans.  But  his  Majesty  never  said  more  on  the  occa- 
sion than   that   I  was  imparagonable !  (what  is  that?)  and 


lOU  IMAGJXARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

that  he  adored  me  ;  holding  my  hand  and  sitting  quite  still, 
wlien  he  might  have  romped  with  me  and  kissed  me. 

Bossuct.      I  would  aspire  to  the  glory  of  converting  you. 

Fu/itcvigcs.  You  may  do  anything  with  me  but  convert 
me  :  you  must  not  do  that;  I  am  a  Catholic  born.  M.  de 
Turenne  and  Mademoiselle  de  Duras  were  heretics  :  you 
did  right  there.  The  King  told  the  chancellor  that  he  pre- 
pared them,  that  the  business  was  arranged  for  you,  and 
that  you  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  get  ready  the  arguments 
and  responses,  which  you  did  gallantly,  —  did  not  you? 
And  yet  Mademoiselle  de  Duras  was  very  awkward  for  a 
long  while  afterward  in  crossing  herself,  and  was  once 
remarked  to  beat  her  breast  in  the  litany  with  the  points  of 
two  fingers  at  a  time,  when  every  one  is  taught  to  use  only 
the  second,  whether  it  has  a  ring  upon  it  or  not.  I  am 
sorry  she  did  so  ;  for  people  might  think  lier  insincere  in 
her  conversion,  and  pretend  that  she  kept  a  finger  for  each 
religion. 

Bossuct.  It  would  be  as  uncharitable  to  doubt  the  con- 
viction of  Matlemoiselle  de  Duras  as  that  of  M.  le  Marechal. 

Fo/itajiX'S.  1  have  heard  some  fine  verses,  I  can  assure 
y(ju,  monsi'igncur,  in  which  you  are  called  the  conqueror  of 
'I'urenne.  I  should  like  to  have  been  his  conqueror  myself, 
he  was  so  great  a  man.  1  understand  that  you  have  lately 
done  a  much  more  difficult  thing. 

Bossi/tt.     '\\)  what  do  you  refer,  mademoiselle.'' 

/''o/ifir/igcs.  That  you  have  overcome  quietism.  Now,  in 
the  name  of  wonder,  how  could  you  manage  that  ? 

Bossuct.     ]jy  the  grace  of  God. 

Fontangcs.     Yes,  indeed  ;  but  never  until  now  did  God  give 
any  preacher  so  much  of  his  grace  as  to  subdue  this  pest. 
Bosstcct.     Jt  has  appeared  among  us  but  lately. 

Fontangcs.  Oh,  dear  me  !  I  have  always  been  subject  to 
it  dreadfully,  from  a  child. 


BOSSUET  AND  THE  DUCHESS  DE  FONTANGES.     101 

Bossuet.     Really  !   I  never  heard  so. 

Fontanges.  I  checked  myself  as  well  as  I  could,  although 
they  constantly  told  me  I  looked  well  in  it. 

Bossuet.     In  what,  mademoiselle  .'' 

Fontanges.  In  quietism;  that  is,  when  I  fell  asleep  at  ser- 
mon-time. 1  am  ashamed  that  such  a  learned  and  pious 
man  as  M.  de  Fe'nelon  should  incline  to  it,  as  they  say  he 
does. 

Bossuet.     Mademoiselle,  you  quite  mistake  the  matter. 

Fontanges.  Is  not  then  M.  de  Fe'ne'lon  thought  a  very 
pious  and  learned  person  ? 

Bossuet.     And  justly. 

Fontanges.  1  have  read  a  great  way  in  a  romance  he  has 
begun,  about  a  knight-errant  in  search  of  a  father.  The 
King  says  there  are  many  such  about  his  court ;  but  I  never 
saw  them  nor  heard  of  them  before.  The  Marchioness  de 
la  Motte,  his  relative,  brought  it  to  me,  written  out  in  a 
charming  hand,  as  much  as  the  copy-book  would  hold ;  and 
I  got  through,  I  know  not  how  far.  If  he  had  gone  on 
with  the  nymphs  in  the  grotto,  I  never  should  have  been 
tired  of  him  ;  but  he  quite  forgot  his  own  story,  and  left 
them  at  once  ;  in  a  hurry  (I  suppose)  to  set  out  upon  his 
mission  to  Saintonge  in  the  pays  (fAunis,  where  the  King 
has  promised  him  a  famous  heretie-/ii/nf.  He  is,  I  do  assure 
you,  a  wonderful  creature  :  he  understands  so  much  Latin 
and  Greek,  and  knows  all  the  tricks  of  the  sorceresses. 
Yet  you  keep  him  under. 

Bossuet.  Mademoiselle,  if  you  really  have  anything  to 
confess,  and  if  you  desire  that  I  should  have  the  honour  of 
absolving  you,  it  would  be  better  to  proceed  in  it,  than  to 
oppress  me  with  unmerited  eulogies  on  my  humble  labours. 

Fontanges.  You  must  first  direct  me,  monseigneur  :  I 
have  nothing  particular.  The  King  assures  me  there  is  no 
harm  whatever  in  his  love  toward  me. 


102  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Bossuet.  That  depends  on  your  thoughts  at  the  moment. 
If  3'ou  abstract  the  mind  from  the  body,  and  turn  your  heart 
toward  heaven  — 

FontaJigcs.  O  monseigneur,  I  always  did  so  —  every  time 
but  once — you  quite  mal<e  me  blush.  Let  us  converse 
about  something  else,  or  I  shall  grow  too  serious,  just  as 
you  made  me  the  other  day  at  the  funeral  sermon.  And 
now  let  me  tell  you,  my  Lord,  you  compose  such  pretty 
funeral  sermons,  I  hope  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing you  preach  mine. 

Bossuet.  Rather  let  us  hope,  mademoiselle,  that  the 
hour  is  yet  far  distant  when  so  melancholy  a  service  will  be 
performed  for  you.  May  he  who  is  unborn  be  the  sad 
announcer  of  your  departure  hence!*  May  he  indicate  to 
those  around  him  many  virtues  not  perhaps  yet  full-blown 
in  you,  and  point  triumphantly  to  many  faults  and  foibles 
checked  by  you  in  their  early  growth,  and  lying  dead  on  the 
open  road  you  shall  have  left  behind  you  !  To  me  the  pain- 
ful duty  will,  I  trust,  be  spared  :  I  am  advanced  in  age  ; 
you  are  a  child. 

Fon/anges.     Oh,  no  !     I  am  seventeen. 

Bossuet.  I  should  have  supposed  you  younger  by  two 
years  at  least.  But  do  you  collect  nothing  from  your  own 
reflection,  which  raises  so  many  in  my  breast  ?  You  think 
it  possible  that  1,  aged  as  I  am,  may  preach  a  sermon  on 
your  funeral.  Alas,  it  is  so  !  such  things  have  been.  There 
is,  however,  no  funeral  so  sad  to  follow  as  the  funeral  of  our 
own  youth,  which  we  have  been  pampering  with  fond  desires, 
ambitious. hopes,  and  all  the  bright  berries  that  hang  in  poi- 
sonous clusters  over  the  path  of  life. 

Foiitanges.  I  never  minded  them  :  I  like  peaches  better  ; 
and  one  a  day  is  quite  enough  for  me. 

*  Bossuet  was  in  his  fifty-fonrtii  year  ;  Mademoiselle  de  ?"ontanges 
died  in  child-bed  the  year  following:  he  survived  her  twenty-three. 


BOSSUET  AND   THE  DUCHESS  DE  FONTANGES.     103 

Bossuet.  We  say  that  our  dajs  are  few  ;  and,  saying  it, 
we  say  too  much.  Marie-Ange'lique,  we  have  but  one  :  the 
past  are  not  ours,  and  who  can  promise  us  the  future  ? 
This  in  W'hich  we  live  is  ours  only  while  we  live  in  it ;  the 
next  moment  may  strike  it  off  from  us ;  the  next  sentence  I 
would  utter  mny  be  broken  and  fall  between  us.  Fhe 
beauty  that  has  made  a  thousand  hearts  to  beat  at  one 
instant,  at  the  succeeding  has  been  without  pulse  and  colour, 
without  admirer,  friend,  companion,  follower.  She  by  whose 
eyes  the  march  of  victory  shall  have  been  directed,  whose 
name  shall  have  animated  armies  at  the  extremities  of  the 
earth,  drops  into  one  of  its  crevices  and  mingles  with  its 
dust.  Duchess  de  Fontanges  !  think  on  this  !  Lady  !  so 
live  as  to  think  on  it  undisturbed ! 

Fontanges.  O  God  !  I  am  quite  alarmed.  Do  not  talk 
thus  gravely.  It  is  in  vain  that  you  speak  to  me  in  so 
sweet  a  voice.  I  am  frightened  even  at  the  rattle  of  the 
beads  about  my  neck  :  take  them  oil,  and  let  us  talk  on 
other  things.  What  was  it  that  dropped  on  the  floor  as  you 
were  speaking?  It  seemed  to  shake  the  room,  though  it 
sounded  like  a  pin  or  button. 

Bossuet.  Nevermind  it:  leave  it  there;  I  pray  you,  I 
implore  you,  madame  ! 

Fontanges.  Why  do  you  rise  ?  Why  do  you  run  ?  \\'hy 
not  let  me  ?  I  am  nimbler.  So,  your  ring  fell  from  your 
hand,  my  Lord  P.ishop  !  How  quick  you  are  !  Could  not 
you  have  trusted  me  to  pick  it  up  } 

Bossuet.  Madame  is  too  condescending  :  had  this  hap- 
pened, I  should  have  been  overwhelmed  with  confusion. 
My  hand  is  shrivelled  :  the  ring  has  ceased  to  fit  it.  A 
mere  accident  may  draw  us  into  perdition  ;  a  mere  accident 
may  bestow  on  us  the  means  of  grace.  A  pebble  has 
moved  you  more  than  mv  words. 

Fontanges.     It  pleases  me  vastly  :   I  admire  rubies.      I  will 


104  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

ask  the  King  for  one  exactly  like  it.  This  is  the  time  he 
usually  comes  from  the  chase.  I  am  sorry  you  cannot  be 
present  to  hear  how  prettily  I  shall  ask  him  :  but  that  is 
impossible,  you  know;  for  I  shall  do  it  just  when  I  am  cer- 
tain he  would  give  me  any  thing.  He  said  so  himself :  he 
said  but  yesterday,  — 

"  Such  a  sweet  creature  is  worlli  a  world;" 

and  no  actor  on  the  stage  was  more  like  a  king  thnn  his 
Majesty  was  when  he  spoke  it,  if  he  had  but  kept  his  wig 
and  robe  on.  And  yet  you  know  he  is  rather  stiff  and 
wrinkled  for  so  great  a  monarch ;  and  his  eyes,  I  am  afraid, 
are  beginning  to  fail  him,  he  looks  so  close  at  things. 

Bossuet.  Mademoiselle,  such  is  the  duty  of  a  prince  who 
desires  to  conciliate  our  regard  and  love. 

Fontan^es.  Well,  I  think  so  too,  though  I  did  not  like  it 
in  him  at  first.  I  am  sure  he  will  order  the  ring  for  me, 
and  1  will  confess  to  you  with  it  upon  my  finger.  But  first 
I  must  be  cautious  and  particular  to  know  of  him  how 
much  it  is  his  royal  will  that  I  should  say. 


XVII. 
DANTE   AND   BKATI^ICE. 

Dante.  When  you  saw  me  profoundly  pierced  with  love, 
and  reddening  and  trembling,  did  it  become  you,  did  it  j 
become  you,  you  whom  I  have  always  called  tJie  most  ircntle 
Bice,  to  join  in  the  heartless  laughter  of  those  girls  around 
you  ?  Answer  me.  Reply  unhesitatingly.  Requires  it  so 
long  a  space  for  dissimulation  and  dui^licity  ?  Pardon  ! 
pardon  !  pardon  !  My  senses  have  left  me  :  my  heart 
being  gone,  they  follow. 

Beatrice.     Childish  man  !   pursuing  the  impossible. 


DANTE  AND  BEATRICE.  1U5 

Dante.  And  was  it  this  you  laughed  at  ?  We  cannot 
touch  tlie  hem  of  God's  garment;  yet  we  fall  at  his  feet, 
and  weep. 

Beatrice.  But  weep  not,  gentle  Dante!  fall  not  before 
the  weakest  of  his  creatures,  willing  to  comfort,  unable  to 
relieve,  you.  Consider  a  little.  Is  laughter  at  all  times  the 
signal  or  the  precursor  of  derision  ?  I  smiled,  let  me  avow 
it,  from  the  pride  I  felt  in  your  preference  of  me  ;  and,  if  I 
laughed,  it  was  to  conceal  my  sentiments.  Did  you  never 
cover  sweet  fruit  with  worthless  leaves?  Come,  do  not 
drop  again  so  soon  so  faint  a  smile.  I  will  not  have  you 
grave,  nor  very  serious.  I  pity  you  ;  I  must  not  love  you  : 
if  I  might,  I  would. 

Dante.  Yet  how  much  love  is  due  to  me,  O  Bice,  who 
have  loved  you,  as  you  well  remember,  even  from  your  tenth 
year  !  But  it  is  reported,  and  your  words  confirm  it,  that 
you  are  going  to  be  married. 

Beatrice.  If  so,  and  if  I  could  have  laughed  at  that,  and 
if  my  laughter  would  have  estranged  you  from  me,  would 
you  blame  me  ? 

Dante.     Tell  me  the  truth. 

Beatrice.     The  report  is  general. 

Dante.     The  truth  !  the  truth !     Tell  me,  Bice. 

Beatrice.     Marriages,  it  is  said,  are  made  in  heaven. 

Dante.      Is  heaven,  then,  under  the  paternal  roof? 

Beatrice.      It  has  been  to  me,  hitherto. 

Dante.     And  now  you  seek  it  elsewhere. 

Beatrice.  I  seek  it  not.  The  wiser  choose  for  the 
weaker.  Nay,  do  not  sigh  so.  What  would  you  have,  my 
grave,  i)ensive  Dante?     What  can  I  do? 

Dante.     Love  me. 

Beatrice.      I  always  did. 

Dante.     Love  me  ?     Oh,  bliss  of  heaven  ! 

Beatrice.     No,  no,  no  !    Forbear!    Men's  kisses  are  always 


106  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

mischievous  and  hurtful ;  everybody  says  it.  If  you  truly 
loved  me,  you  would  never  think  of  doing  so. 

Dante.     Nor  even  this  .'' 

Beatrice.  You  forget  that  you  are  no  longer  a  boy  ;  and 
that  it  is  not  thought  proper  at  your  time  of  life  to  continue 
the  arm  at  all  about  the  waist.  Beside,  I  think  you  would 
better  not  put  your  head  against  my  bosom  ;  it  beats  too 
much  to  be  pleasant  to  you.  Why  do  you  wish  it  ?  Why 
fancy  it  can  do  you  any  good  ?  It  grows  no  cooler  :  it  seems 
to  grow  even  hotter.  Oh,  how  it  burns  !  Go,  go  ;  it  hurts 
me  too  :  it  struggles,  it  aches,  it  throbs.  Thank  you,  my 
gentle  friend,  for  removing  your  brow  away  :  your  hair  is 
very  thick  and  long  ;  and  it  began  to  heat  me  more  than 
you  can  imagine.  While  it  was  there,  1  could  not  see  your 
face  so  well,  nor  talk  with  you  quietly. 

Dante.     Oh  !  when  shall  we  talk  so  quietly  in  future  ? 

Beatrice.  When  I  am  married.  I  shall  often  come  to 
visit  my  father.  He  has  always  been  solitary  since  my 
mother's  death,  which  happened  in  my  infancy,  long  before 
you  knew  me. 

Dante.  How  can  he  endure  the  solitude  of  his  house 
when  you  have  left  it  ? 

Beatrice.     The  very  question  I  a.sked  him. 

Dante.     You  did  not  then  wish  to  —  to  —  go  away? 

Beatrice.     Ah,  no  !      It  is  sad  to  be  an  outcast  at  fifteen. 

Dajite.     An  outcast? 

Beatrice.     Forced  to  leave  a  home. 

Dante.     For  another  ? 

Beatrice.     ( 'hildhood  can  never  have  a  second. 

Da?ite.     But  childiiood  is  now  over. 

Beatrice.  I  wonder  who  was  so  malicious  as  to  tell  my 
father  that  ?     He  wanted  me  to   be   married   a   whole   year 


ago. 


Dante.     And,  Bice,  you  hesitated  ? 


DANTE   AND   BEATK/CE.  107 

Beatrice.  No  ;  I  only  wept.  He  is  a  dear,  good  father. 
I  never  disobeyed  him  but  in  those  wicked  tears  ;  and  they 
ran  the  faster  the  more  he  reprehended  them. 

Dante.     Say,  who  is  the  happy  youth  ? 

Beatrice.   I  know  not  who  ought  to  be  happy,  if  you  are  not. 

Dante.     I  ? 

Beatrice.     Surely,  you  deserve  all  happiness. 

Dante.  Happiness  !  any  happiness  is  denied  me.  Ah, 
hours  of  childhood!  bright  hours!  what  fragrant  blossoms 
ye  unfold  !   what  bitter  fruits  to  ripen  ! 

Beatrice.  Now  cannot  you  continue  to  sit  under  that  old 
fig-tree  at  the  corner  of  the  garden  ?  It  is  always  delightful 
to  me  to  think  of  it. 

Dante.     Again  you  smile  :   I  wish  I  could  smile  too. 

Beatrice.  You  were  usually  more  grave  than  I,  although 
very  often,  two  years  ago,  you  told  me  I  was  the  graver. 
Perhaps  I  ivas  then,  indeed  ;  and  perhaps  I  ought  to  be 
now  :  but,  really,  I  must  smile  at  the  recollection,  and  make 
you  smile  with  me. 

Dante.      Recollection  of  what,  in  particular  ? 

Beatrice.  Of  your  ignorance  that  a  fig-tree  is  the  brittlest 
of  trees,  especially  when  it  is  in  leaf  ;  and,  moreover,  of 
your  tumble,  when  your  head  was  just  above  the  wall,  and 
your  hand  (with  the  verses  in  it)  on  the  very  coping-stone. 
Nobody  suspected  that  I  went  every  day  to  the  bottom  of 
our  garden,  to  hear  you  repeat  your  poetry  on  the  other 
side  ;  nobody  but  yourself  :  you  soon  found  me  out.  PJut 
on  that  occasion  I  thought  you  might  have  been  hurt ;  and 
I  clambered  up  our  high  peach-tree  in  the  grass-plot  nearest 
the  place;  and  thence  I  saw  Messer  Dante,  with  his  white 
sleeve  reddened  by  the  fig-juice,  and  the  seeds  sticking  to 
it  pertinaciously,  and  Messer  blushing,  and  trying  to  conceal 
his  calamity,  and  still  holding  the  verses.  They  were  all 
about  me. 


108  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Dante.  Never  shall  any  verse  of  mine  be  uttered  from 
my  lips,  or  from  the  lips  of  others,  without  the  memorial  of 
Bice. 

Beatrice.  Sweet  Dante  !  in  the  purity  of  your  soul  shall 
Bice  live  ;  as  (we  are  told  by  the  goat-herds  and  foresters) 
poor  creatures  have  been  found  preserved  in  the  serene  and 
lofty  regions  of  the  Alps,  many  years  after  the  breath  of  life 
had  left  them.  Already  you  rival  Guido  Cavalcanti  and 
Cino  da  Pistoja  :  you  must  attempt  —  nor  perhaps  shall  it 
be  vainly — ^to  surpass  them  in  celebrity. 

Dante.  If  ever  I  am  above  them,  —  and  I  must  be,  — -  I 
know  already  what  angel's  hand  will  have  helped  me  up  the 
ladder.  Beatrice,  I  vow  to  heaven,  shall  stand  higher  than 
Selvaggia,  high  and  glorious  and  immortal  as  that  name 
will  be.  You  have  given  me  joy  and  sorrow  ;  for  the  worst 
of  these  (I  will  not  say  the  least)  I  will  confer  on  you  all  the 
generations  of  our  Italy,  all  the  ages  of  our  world.  But, 
first  (alas,  from  me  you  must  not  have  it  !)  may  happiness, 
long  happiness,  attend  you  ! 

Beatrice.  Ah  !  those  words  rend  your  bosom  !  Why 
should  they  ? 

Dante.  I  could  go  away  contented,  or  almost  contented, 
were  I  sure  of  it.  Hope  is  nearly  as  strong  as  despair,  and 
greatly  more  pertinacious  and  enduring.  \'ou  have  made 
me  see  clearly  that  you  never  can  be  mine  in  this  world  ; 
but  at  the  same  time,  ()  Beatrice,  you  have  made  me  see 
quite  as  clearly  that  you  may  and  must  be  mine  in  another. 
I  am  older  than  you  :  precedency  is  given  to  age,  and  not 
to  worthiness,  in  our  way  to  heaven.  I  will  watch  over  you; 
I  will  pray  for  you  when  I  am  nearer  to  God,  and  purified 
from  the  stains  of  earth  and  mortality.  He  will  permit  me 
to  behold  you  lovely  as  when  1  left  you.  Angels  in  vain 
should  call  me  onward. 

Beatrice.     Hush,  sweetest  Dante  !   hush  1 


DANTE   AND   BEATRICE.  109 

Dante.  It  is  Uk-ic,  where  I  shall  liave  caught  the  first 
glimpse  of  you  again,  that  1  wish  all  my  portion  of  Para- 
dise to  be  assigned  me  ;  and  there,  if  far  below  you,  yet 
within  the  sight  of  you,  to  establish  my  perdurable  abode. 

Beatrice.  Is  this  piety?  Is  this  wisdom?  O  Dante! 
And  may  not  I  be  called  away  first  ? 

Dante.  Alas  !  alas  !  how  many  small  feet  have  swept  off 
the  early  dew  of  life,  leaving  the  path  black  behind  them  ! 
But  to  think  that  you  should  go  before  me  !  It  almost 
sends  me  forward  on  my  way,  to  receive  and  welcome  you. 
If  indeed,  O  Beatrice  !  such  should  be  God's  immutable 
will,  sometimes  look  down  on  me  when  the  song  to  him  is 
suspended.  Oh  !  look  often  on  me  with  prayer  and  pity  ; 
for  there  all  prayers  are  accepted,  and  all  pity  is  devoid  of 
pain.      Why  are  you  silent  ? 

Beatrice.  It  is  very  sinful  not  to  love  all  creatures  in  the 
world.  But  is  it  true,  O  Dante  !  that  we  always  love  those 
the  most  who  make  us  the  most  unhappy  ? 

Dante.     The  remark,  I  fear,  is  just. 

Beatrice.  Then,  unless  the  Virgin  be  pleased  to  change 
my  inclinations,  I  shall  begin  at  last  to  love  my  betrothed  ; 
for  already  the  very  idea  of  him  renders  me  sad,  wearisome, 
and  comfortless.  Yesterday,  he  sent  me  a  bunch  of  violets. 
When  I  took  them  up,  delighted  as  I  felt  at  that  sweetest  of 
odours,  which  you  and  I  once  inhaled  together  — - 

Dante.     And  only  once. 

Beatrice.  You  know  why.  Be  quiet  now,  and  hear  me. 
I  dropped  the  posy  ;  for  around  it,  hidden  by  various  kinds 
of  foliage,  was  twined  the  bridal  necklace  of  pearls.  O 
Dante  !  how  worthless  are  the  finest  of  them  (and  there  are 
many  fine  ones)  in  comparison  with  those  little  pebbles, 
some  of  which  (for  perhaps  I  may  not  have  gathered  up  all) 
may  be  still  lying  under  the  peach-tree,  and  some  (do  1 
blush  to  say  it  ?)    under  the    fig  !      Tell    me   not   who  threw 


110  IMAGINARY   COAVERSATIOXS. 

these,  nor  for  what.  But  you  know  you  were  always 
thoughtful,  and  sometimes  reading,  sometimes  writing,  and 
sometimes  forgetting  me,  while  I  waited  to  see  the  crimson 
cap,  and  the  two  bay-leaves  I  fastened  in  it,  rise  above  the 
garden-wall.  How  silently  you  are  listening,  if  you  do 
listen  ! 

Dante.  Oh,  could  my  thoughts  incessantly  and  eternally 
dwell  among  these  recollections,  undisturbed  by  any  other 
voice,  —  undisturbed  by  any  other  presence  !  Soon  must 
they  abide  with  me  alone,  and  be  repeated  by  none  but  me, 
—  repeated  in  the  accents  of  anguish  and  despair  !  Why 
could  you  not  have  held  in  the  sad  home  of  your  heart  that 
necklace  and  those  violets .'' 

Beatrice.  My  Dante  !  we  must  all  obey  :  I,  my  father ; 
you,  your  God.     He  will  never  abandon  you. 

Dante.  I  have  ever  sung,  and  will  for  ever  sing,  the 
most  glorious  of  his  works  :  and  yet,  O  Bice  !  he  abandons 
me,  he  casts  me  off  :  and  he  uses  your  hand  for  this 
infliction. 

Beatrice.  Men  travel  far  and  wide,  and  see  many  on 
whom  to  fix  or  transfer  their  affections  ;  but  we  maidens 
have  neither  the  power  nor  the  will.  Casting  our  eyes  on 
the  ground,  we  walk  along  the  straight  and  narrow  road  pre- 
scribed for  us ;  and,  doing  thus,  we  avoid  in  great  measure 
the  thorns  and  entanglements  of  life.  V\'e  know  we  are  per- 
forming our  duty;  and  the  fruit  of  this  knowledge  is  con- 
tentment. Season  after  season,  day  after  day,  you  have 
made  me  serious,  pensive,  meditative,  and  almost  wise. 
Jieing  so  little  a  girl,  I  was  proud  that  you,  so  much  taller, 
should  lean  on  my  shoulder  to  overlook  my  work.  And 
greatly  more  proud  was  1  when  in  time  you  taught  me  sev- 
eral Latin  words,  and  then  whole  sentences,  both  in  prose 
and  verse  ;  pasting  a  strip  of  paper  over,  or  obscuring  with 
impenetrable  ink,  those  passages  in   the   poets  which   were 


DANTE   AND  BEATRICE.  Ill 

beyond  my  comprehension,  and  might  perplex  me.  I  Jut 
proudest  of  all  was  I  when  you  began  to  reason  with  me. 
What  will  now  be  my  pride,  if  you  are  convinced  by  the 
first  arguments  1  ever  have  opposetl  to  you  ;  or  if  you  only 
take  them  up  and  try  if  they  are  applicable.  Certainly  do  I 
know  (indeed,  indeed  I  do)  that  even  the  patience  to  con- 
sider them  will  make  you  happier.  Will  it  not,  then,  make 
me  so  ?     I  entertain  no  other  wish.     Is  not  this  true  love  ? 

Dante.  Ah,  yes  !  the  truest,  the  purest,  the  least  perish- 
able ;  but  not  the  sweetest.  Here  are  the  rue  and  the 
hyssop  ;  but  where  the  rose  ? 

Beatrice.  Wicked  must  be  whatever  torments  you  ;  and 
will  you  let  love  do  it  ?  Love  is  the  gentlest  and  kindest 
breath  of  God.  Are  you  willing  that  the  Tempter  should 
intercept  it,  and  respire  it  polluted  into  your  ear  ?  Do  not 
make  me  hesitate  to  pray  to  the  Virgin  for  you,  nor  trem- 
ble lest  she  look  down  on  you  with  a  reproachful  pity.  To 
her  alone,  O  Dante  !  dare  I  confide  all  my  thoughts. 
Lessen  not  my  confidence  in  my  only  refuge. 

Dante.  God  annihilate  a  power  so  criminal  !  Oh,  could 
my  love  tiow  into  your  breast  with  hers  !  It  should  flow 
with  equal  purity. 

Beatrice,  /iow  have  stored  my  little  mind  with  many 
thoughts  ;  dear  because  they  are  yours,  and  because  they 
are  virtuous.  May  I  not,  O  my  Dante  !  bring  some  of  them 
back  again  to  your  bosom  ;  as  the  Contadina  lets  down  the 
string  from  the  cottage-beam  in  winter,  and  culls  a  few 
bunches  of  the  soundest  for  the  master  of  the  vineyard? 
You  have  not  given  me  glory  that  the  world  should  shudder 
at  its  eclipse.  To  prove  that  I  am  worthy  of  the  smallest 
part  of  it,  I  must  obey  God  ;  and,  under  God,  my  father. 
Surely,  the  voice  of  Heaven  comes  to  us  audibly  from  a 
parent's  lips.  You  will  be  great,  and,  what  is  above  all 
greatness,  good. 


1 1 2  IMA  GIN  A  R  Y   CON  I  'ERSA  TIONS. 

Dante.  Rightly  and  wisely,  my  sweet  Beatrice,  have  you 
spoken  in  this  estimate.  Greatness  is  to  goodness  what 
gravel  is  to  porphyry  :  the  one  is  a  movable  accumulation, 
swept  along  the  surface  of  the  earth  ;  the  other  stands  fixed 
and  solid  and  alone,  above  the  violence  of  war  and  of  the 
tempest,  above  all  that  is  residuous  of  a  wasted  world. 
Little  men  build  up  great  ones ;  but  the  snow  colossus  soon 
melts.  The  good  stand  under  the  eye  of  God  ;  and  therefore 
stand. 

Beatrice.     Now  you   are  calm    and  reasonable,  listen  to 
Bice.     Vou  must  marry. 
Dante.     Marry .'' 

Beatrice.  Unless  you  do,  how  can  we  meet  again,  unre- 
servedly ?  Worse,  worse  than  ever  !  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
those  large,  heavy  tears  following  one  another,  heavy  and 
slow  as  nuns  at  the  funeral  of  a  sister.  Come,  I  will  kiss 
off  one,  if  you  will  promise  me  faithfully  to  shed  no  more. 
Be  tranquil,  be  tranquil ;  only  hear  reason.  There  are 
many  who  know  you  ;  and  all  who  know  you  must  love  you. 
Don't  you  hear  me  ?  Why  turn  aside  ?  and  why  go  further 
off?  I  will  have  that  hand.  It  twists  about  as  if  it  hated 
its  confinement.  Perverse  and  peevish  creature  !  you  have 
no  more  reason  to  be  sorry  than  1  have  ;  and  you  have 
many  to  the  contrary  which  I  have  not.  Being  a  man,  you 
are  at  liberty  to  admire  a  variety,  and  to  make  a  choice.  Is 
that  no  comfort  to  you  ? 
Dante. 

Bid  this  bosom  cease  to  grieve  ? 

Bid  these  eyes  fresh  objects  see  ? 
Where  's  the  comfort  to  believe 

None  might  once  have  rivall'd  me  ? 
What  !   my  freedom  to  receive  ! 

Broken  hearts,  are  they  the  free  ? 
For  another  can  I  live 

When  I  may  not  live  for  thee  ? 


BENIOWSKl  AXD   APHANASIA.  113 

Beatrice.  1  will  ucvcr  be  fond  of  you  again,  if  you  are  so 
violent.  We  have  been  together  too  long,  and  we  may  be 
noticed. 

Dante.  Is  this  our  last  meeting?  If  it  is  —  and  that  it 
is,  my  heart  has  told  me  — you  will  not,  surely  you  will  not 
refuse  — 

Beatrice.  Dante  !  Dante  !  they  make  the  heart  sad 
after  :  do  not  wish  it.  But  prayers  —  oh,  how  much  better 
are  they  !  how  much  quieter  and  lighter  they  render  it ! 
They  carry  it  up  to  heaven  with  them  ;  and  those  we  love 
are  left  behind  no  longer. 

XVIII. 
BENIUWSKI    AND    APHANASIA. 

Aphanasia.  You  are  leaving  us  !  you  are  leaving  us  !  O 
Maurice  !  in  these  vast  wildernesses  are  you,  then,  the 
only  thing  cruel  ? 

Beniowski.  Aphanasia  !  who,  in  the  name  of  Heaven, 
could  have  told  you  this  ? 

Aphanasia.     Your  sighs  when  we  met  at  lesson. 

Beniowski.  And  may  not  an  exile  sigh  ?  Does  the  mer- 
ciless Catharine,  the  murderer  of  her  husband,  —  does  even 
she  forbid  it  ?  Loss  of  rank,  of  estate,  of  liberty,  of 
country  !  — 

Aphanasia.  You  had  lost  them,  and  still  were  happy. 
Did  not  you  tell  me  that  our  studies  were  your  consolation, 
and  that  Aphanasia  was  your  heart's  content  ? 

Beniowski.  Innocence  and  youth  should  ever  be  unsus- 
picious. 

Aphafiasia.  I  am,  then,  wicked  in  your  eyes  !  Hear  me  ! 
hear  me  !  It  was  no  suspicion  in  me.  Fly,  Maurice  !  fly, 
my  beloved  Maurice  !  my  father  knows  your  intention,  — 
fly,  fly  ! 


114  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

Beniowski.  Impossible  !  how  know  it  ?  how  suspect  it  ? 
Speak,  my  sweet  girl  !  be  calm. 

Aphanasia.  Only  do  not  go  while  there  is  nothing 
under  heaven  but  the  snows  and  sea.  Where  will  you  find 
food  ?  Who  will  chafe  your  hands  }  Who  will  warn  you 
not  to  sleep  lest  you  should  die  ?  And  whose  voice,  can 
you  tell  me,  will  help  your  smiles  to  waken  you  ?  Maurice, 
dear  Maurice,  only  stay  until  the  summer  :  my  father  will 
then  have  ceased  to  suspect  you,  and  I  may  learn  from  you 
how  to  bear  it.  March,  April,  May  —  three  months  are 
little  —  you  have  been  here  three  months  —  one  fagot's 
blaze  !  Do  promise  me.  I  will  throw  myself  on  the  floor, 
and  ask  my  good,  kind  father  to  let  you  leave  us. 

Beniowski.  Aphanasia  !  are  you  wild  .'  My  dearest  girl, 
abandon  the  idea  !  you  ruin  me  ;  you  cause  my  imprison- 
ment, my  deprivation  of  you,  my  death.  Listen  to  me  :  I 
swear  to  do  nothing  without  you. 

Aphanasia.     Oh,  yes  !  you  go  without  me. 

Beniowski.  PainfuUest  of  my  thoughts  !  No  ;  here  let 
me  live,  —  here,  lost,  degraded,  useless  ;  and  Aphanasia  be 
the  witness  of  nothing  but  my  ignominy.  O  God  !  was  I 
born  for  this  :  is  mine  a  light  to  set  in  this  horizon  ? 

Aphanasia.  I  do  not  understand  you  :  did  you  pray  ? 
May  the  saints  of  heaven  direct  you  !  but  not  to  leave  me  ! 

Benio7vski.  O  Aphanasia  !  I  thought  you  were  too  rea- 
sonable and  too  courageous  t(;  shed  tears  :  you  did  not  weep 
before  ;  why  do  you  now  ? 

Aphanasia.  Ah  !  why  did  you  read  to  me,  once,  of  those 
two  lovers  who  were  buried  in  the  same  grave  ? 

Beniozuski.     What  two.-'  there  have  been  several. 

Aphanasia.  Dearest,  dearest  Maurice  !  are  lovers,  then, 
often  so  happy  to  tlic  last?  Ood  will  be  as  good  to  us  as 
to  any  ;  for  surely  we  trust  in  him  as  much.  Come,  come 
along  :  let  us  run  to  the  sea  the  whole  way.     There  is  fond- 


BENIOWSKI  AND   APHANASIA.  115 

ness  in  your  sweet,  compassionate  face  ;  and  yet,  I  pray 
you,  do  not  look,  —  oh  do  not  look,  at  me  !  I  am  so 
ashamed.  Take  me,  take  me  with  you  :  let  us  away  this 
instant  !  Loose  me  from  your  arms,  dear  Maurice  :  let  me 
go  ;  I  will  return  again  directly.  Forgive  me  !  /'///  forgive 
me  1  Do  not  think  me  vile  !  You  do  not  :  I  know  you 
do  not,  now  you  kiss  me. 

Beniowski.  Nevt:r  will  1  consent  to  loose  you,  light  of 
my  deliverance  !  Let  this  unite  us  eternally,  my  sweet 
espoused  Aphanasia  ! 

Aphanasia.  Espoused  !  O  blessed  day  !  O  light  from 
heaven  !  1  could  no  longer  be  silent  ;  I  could  not  speak 
otherwise.  The  seas  are  very  wide,  they  tell  me,  and  cov- 
ered with  rocks  of  ice  and  mountains  of  snow  for  many 
versts,  upon  which  there  is  not  an  aspen  or  birch  or  alder  to 
catch  at,  if  the  wind  should  blow  hard.  There  is  no  rye, 
nor  berries,  nor  little  birds  tamed  by  the  frost,  nor  beasts 
asleep  ;  and  many  days,  and  many  long,  stormy  nights 
must  be  endured  upon  the  waves  without  food.  Could  you 
bear  this  quite  alone  ? 

Beniinvski.     Could  yoit  bear  it,  Aphanasia  .-' 

Aphanasia.     Alone,  I  could  not. 

Bejiiozvski.  Could  you  with  me  ?  Think  again  :  we  both 
must  sufifer. 

Aphanasia.  How  can  we,  Maurice  ?  Shall  not  we  die 
together?     Why  do  you  clasp  me  so  hard  ? 

Beniowski.  C'ould  you  endure  to  see,  hour  after  hour, 
the  deaths  and  the  agonies  of  the  brave  ?  —  how  many 
deaths  !  what  dreadful  agonies  !  The  fury  of  thirst,  the 
desperation  of  hunger  ?  To  hear  their  bodies  plunged 
nightly  into  the  unhallowed  deep  ;  but  first,  Aphanasia,  to 
hear  them  curse  me  as  the  author  of  their  sufferings,  the 
deluder  of  an  innocent  and  inexperienced  girl,  dragging  her 
with  me  to  a  watery  grave,  famished  and  ghastly,  so   lovely 


116  IMAGIXARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

and  so  joyous  but  the  other  day  ?  O  my  Aphanasia  !  there 
are  things  which  you  have  never  heard,  never  should  have 
heard,  and  must  hear.  You  have  read  about  the  works  of 
God  in  the  creation  ? 

Aphanasia.  My  father  could  teach  me  thus  fur  :  it  is  in 
the  Bible. 

Beiiiowski.  You  have  read,  "  In  his  image  created  he 
man." 

Aphanasia.     I  thought  it  strange,  until  I  saw  you,  Maurice  ! 

Beniinvski.  Strange,  then,  will  you  think  it  that  man 
himself  breaks  this  image  in  his  brother. 

Aphanasia.      Cain  did,  and  was  accursed  for  it. 

Beniowski.  We  do,  and  are  honoured  ;  dishonoured,  if  we 
do  not.  This  is  yet  distant  from  the  scope  of  my  discourse. 
\'ou  have  heard  the  wolves  and  bears  howl  about  our  sheds  ? 

Aphanasia.  Oh,  yes !  and  I  have  been  told  that  they 
come  upon  the  ice  into  the  sea.  But  I  am  not  afraid  of 
them  :    I  will  give  you  a  signal  when  they  are  near  us. 

Beniowski.  Hunger  is  sometimes  so  intolerable,  it  com- 
pels them  to  kill  and  devour  one  another. 

Aphanasia.  They  are  violent  and  hurtful  creatures  ;  but 
that  shocks  me. 

Beniowski.     What,  if  men  did  it  ? 

Aphanasia.  Merciful  Redeemer  !  You  do  not  mean, 
devour  each  other  .' 

Beniowski.  Hunger  has  driven  men  to  this  extremity. 
You  doubt  my  words  :  astonishment  turns  you  pale,  —  paler 
than  ever. 

Aphanasia.  I  do  believe  you.  —  Was  I  then  so  pale  ?  I 
know  they  kill  one  another  when  they  are  not  famished  ; 
can  I  wonder  that  they  eat  one  another  when  they  are  ? 
The  cruelty  would  be  less,  even  without  the  compulsion  ; 
but  the  killing  did  not  seem  so  strange  to  me,  because  I  had 
heard  cf  it  before. 


BENIOWSKI  AND   API/ANASIA.  117 

Beniowski.  Think  !  our  mariners  may  draw  lots  for  the 
victim,  or  may  seize  the  weakest. 

Aphanasia.     I  am  the  weakest ;  what  can  you  say  now  ? 

0  foolish  girl  to  have  spoken  it  !  You  have  hurt,  you  have 
hurt  your  forehead !  Do  not  stride  away  from  me  thus 
wildly  !  Do  not  throw  back  on  me  those  reproaching,  those 
terrifying  glances  !  Have  the  sailors  no  better  hopes  of 
living,  strong  as  they  are,  and  accustomed  to  the  hardships 
and  dangers  of  the  ocean  ? 

Bciiiouiski.     Hopes  there  are  always. 

Aphanasia.  Why,  then,  do  you  try  to  frighten  me  with 
what  is  not  and  may  not  ever  be?  Why  look  as  if  it  pained 
you  to  be  kind  to  me  }  Do  you  retract  the  promise  yet 
warm  upon  your  lips  ?  Would  you  render  the  sea  itself 
more  horrible  than  it  is  .?  Am  I  ignorant  that  it  has  whirl- 
pools and  monsters  in  its  bosom  ;  and  storms  and  tempests 
that  will  never  let  it  rest  ;  and  revengeful  and  remorseless 
men,  that  mix  each  other's  blood  in  its  salt  waters,  when 
cities  and  solitudes  are  not  vast  enough  to  receive  it .''  The 
sea  is  indeed  a  very  frightful  thing :  I  will  look  away  from 
it.  I  protest  to  you  I  never  will  be  sad  or  frightened  at  it, 
if  you  will  luit  let  me  go  with  you.  If  you  will  not,  O 
Maurice,  I  shall  die  with  fear  ;  I  shall  never  see  you  again, 
though  you  return.  —  and  you  will  so  wish  to  see  me  !  For 
you  will  grow  kinder  when  you  are  away. 

Beniinvski.     O  Aphanasia  !  little  know  you  me  or  yourself. 

Ap/iaiiasia.     While  you  are  with  me,  I  know  how  dearly 

1  love  you  ;  when  you  are  absent,  I  cannot  think  it  half,  so 
many  sighs  and  sorrows  interrupt  me  !  And  you  will  love 
me  very  much  when  you  are  gone  !  Even  this  might  pain 
you  :  do  not  let  it  !  No  !  you  have  promised  ;  't  was  I  who 
had  forgotten  it,  not  you. 

How  your  heart  beats  !  These  are  your  tears  upon  my 
hair  and  shoulders. 


118  IMAGLXARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

Bcniotuski.     May  they  be  the  last  we  shall  mingle  . 

Aphanasia.  Let  me  run,  then,  and  embrace  my  father  : 
if  he  does  not  bless  me,  you  ought  not. 

BeJiiowski.  Aphanasia,  I  will  not  refuse  you  even  what 
would  disunite  us.      Let  me,  too,  stay  and  perish  ! 

Aphatiasia.  Ah,  my  most  tender,  most  confiding  father  ! 
must  you  then  weep  for  me,  or  must  you  hate  me  ? 

Benunvski.  We  shall  meet  again  ;  and  soon,  perhaps.  I 
promise  it.  The  seas  will  spare  us.  He  who  inspires  the 
heart  of   Aphanasia  will  preserve  her  days. 


XIX. 

LEONORA    DI    E.STE    AND    FATHER    PANIGAROLA. 

Leonora.  You  have,  then,  seen  him,  father  ?  Have  you 
been  able — you  who  console  so  many,  you  who  console 
even  me  —  to  comfort  poor  Torquato  ? 

J\x}iigarola.  Madonna,  the  ears  of  the  unhappy  man  are 
quickened  by  his  solitude  and  his  sorrow.  He  seemed 
aware,  or  suspicious  at  least,  that  somebody  was  listening 
at  his  prison-door  ;  and  the  cell  is  so  narrow,  that  every 
sound  in  it  is  audible  to  those  who  stand  outside. 

Leonora.      He  might  have  whispered. 

Panigarola.      It  would  have  been  most  imprudent. 

Leofiora.  Said  he  nothing  ?  not  a  word  ?  —  to  prove  —  to 
prove  that  he  had  not  lost  his  memory  ?  His  memory  —  of 
what  ?  of  reading  his  verses  to  me,  and  of  my  listening  to 
them.  Lucrezia  listened  to  them  as  attentively  as  I  did, 
until  she  observed  his  waiting  for  my  applause  first.  When 
she  applauded,  he  bowed  so  gracefully  ;  when  I  applauded, 
he  only  held  down  his  head.  I  was  not  angry  at  the  differ- 
ence. But  tell  me,  good  father  !  tell  me,  pray,  whether  he 
gave  no  sign  of  sorrow  at  hearing  how  soon  I  am  to  leave 


LEONORA  DI  ESTK  AND  FATHER  PANFGAROLA.     \V) 

the  world.  Did  you  forget  to  mention  it  ;  or  did  you  fear 
to  pain  him  ? 

Panigarola.     I  mentioned  it  plainly,  fully. 

Leonora.  And  was  he,  was  gentle  Torquato,  very 
sorry  ? 

Panigarola.  Be  less  anxious.  He  bore  it  like  a  Chris- 
tian. He  said  deliberately,  — but  he  trembled  and  sighed, 
as  Christians  should  sigh  and  tremble,  —  that,  although  he 
grieved  at  your  illness,  yet  that  to  write,  either  in  verse  or 
prose,  on  such  a  visitation  of  Providence,  was  repugnant  to 
his  nature. 

Leonora.  Lie  said  so  ?  could  he  say  it  ?  But  I  thought 
you  told  me  he  feared  a  listener.  Perhaps,  too,  he  feared 
to  awaken  in  me  the  sentiments  he  once  excited.  However 
it  may  be,  already  I  feel  the  chilliness  of  the  grave:  his 
words  breathe  it  over  me.  I  would  have  entreated  him  to 
forget  me  ;  but  to  be  forgotten  before  I  had  entreated  it  ! 
—  O  father,  father! 

Panigarola.  Human  vanity  still  is  lingering  on  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  tomb.  Is  it  criminal,  is  it  censurable  in  him, 
to  anticipate  your  wishes  .'* 

Leonora.  Knowing  the  certainty  and  the  nearness  of  my 
departure,  he  might  at  least  have  told  me  through  you  that 
he  lamented  to  lose  me. 

Panigarola.  Is  there  no  voice  within  your  heart  that 
clearly  tells  you  so  ? 

Leonora.  That  voice  is  too  indistinct,  too  troubled  with 
the  throbbings  round  about  it.  We  women  want  sometimes 
to  hear  what  we  know  ;  we  die  unless  we  hear  what  we 
doubt. 

Panigarola.  Madonna,  this  is  too  passionate  for  the 
hour.  But  the  tears  you  are  shedding  are  a  proof  of  your 
compunction.  May  the  Virgin  and  the  saints  around  her 
throne  accept  and  ratify  it ! 


120  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Leono7-a.  Father !  what  were  you  saying  ?  What  were 
you  asking  me  ?  Whether  no  voice  whispered  to  me, 
assured  me  ?  I  know  not.  I  am  weary  of  thinking.  He 
must  love  me.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  such  men  ever  to 
cease  from  loving.  Was  genius  ever  ungrateful  ?  Mere 
talents  are  dry  leaves,  tossed  up  and  down  by  gusts  of  pas- 
sion, and  scattered  and  swept  away  ;  but  Genius  lies  on  tlie 
bosom  of  Memory,  and  Gratitude  at  her  feet. 

Pnnigarola.  Be  composed,  be  calm,  be  resigned  to  the 
will  of  Heaven  ;  be  ready  for  that  journey's  end,  where  the 
happier  who  have  gone  before,  and  the  enduring  who  soon 
must  follow,  will  meet. 

Leonora.  I  am  prepared  to  depart  :  for  I  have  struggled 
(God  knows)  to  surmount  what  is  insurmountable  ;  and  the 
wings  of  Hope  will  sustain  and  raise  me,  seeing  my  descent 
toward  earth  too  swift,  too  unresisted,  and  too  prone.  Pray, 
father,  for  my  deliverance  ;  pray  also  for  poor  Torquato's  : 
do  not  separate  us  in  your  prayers.  Oh,  could  he  leave  his 
prison  as  surely  and  as  speedily  as  I  shall  mine,  it  would  not 
be  more  thankfully  !  Oh  that  bars  of  iron  were  as  fragile 
as  bars  of  clay  !  ()\\  that  princes  were  as  merciful  as 
death!  But  tell  him,  tell  Torquato, — go  again  ;  entreat, 
persuade,  command  him,  —  to  forget  me. 

Faiiigarola.  Alas  !  even  the  conim:iiul,  even  the  com- 
mand from  you  and  from  above,  might  not  avail  perhaps. 
You  smile,  Madonna  ! 

Leonora.      I  die  happy. 

XX. 

ADMTKAl,    I'.LAKE    AND    IIUMIMIREY    BLAKE. 

Blakr.  Humphrey!  it  hath  pleased  God,  upon  this  day, 
to  vouchsafe  unto  the  English  arms  a  signal  victory. 
Brother  !  it  grieves  my  heart  that  neither  of  us  can  rejoice 


ADMIRAL    BLAKE   AAW   //UM/'//A' F.Y  BLAKE.       121 

in  it  as  we  should  do.  Evening  is  closing  on  the  waters : 
our  crews  are  returning  thanks  and  offering  up  prayers  to 
the  Almighty.  Alas !  Alas  !  that  we,  who  ought  to  be  the 
most  grateful  for  his  protection,  and  for  the  spirit  he  hath 
breathed  into  our  people,  should  be  the  only  men  in  this 
vast  armament  whom  he  hath  sorely  chastened  !  —  that  we  of 
all  others  should  be  ashamed  to  approach  the  throne  of 
grace  among  our  countrymen  and  comrades  !  There  are 
those  who  accuse  you,  and  they  are  brave  and  honest  men 
—  there  are  those,  O  Humphrey  !  Humphrey  !  —  was  the 
sound  ever  heard  in  our  father's  house  ?  —  who  accuse  you, 
brother  !  brother  !  —  how  can  I  ever  find  utterance  for  the 
word  ?  —  yea,  of  cowardice. 

Stand  off!    I  want  no  help:   let  me  be. 

Humphrey.  To-day,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  was  in 
the  midst  of  many  ships  of  superior  force  firing  upon  mine, 
at  once  and  incessantly. 

Blake.  The  very  position  where  most  intrepidity  was 
required.  Were  none  with  you  ?  —  were  none  in  the  same 
danger  ?  Shame,  shame !  You  owed  many  an  example, 
and  you  defrauded  them  of  it.  They  could  not  gain  pro- 
motion, the  poor  seamen  !  they  could  not  hope  for  glory  in 
the  wide  world  :  example  they  might  have  hoped  for.  You 
would  not  have  robbed  them  of  their  prize-money  — 

Huviphrey.  Brother  !  was  ever  act  of  dishonesty  imputed 
to  a  Blake  ? 

Blake.  —  Until  now.  You  have  robbed  them  even  of  the 
chance  they  had  of  winning  it;  you  have  robbed  them  of 
the  pride,  the  just  and  chastened  pride,  awaiting  them  at 
home  ;  you  have  robbed  their  children  of  their  richest 
inheritance,  a  father's  good  repute. 

Humphrey.  Despite  of  calumniators,  there  are  worthy 
men  ready  to  speak  in  my  favour,  at  least  in  extenuation  — 

Blake.      I  will  hear  them,  as  becomes  me,  although  I   my- 


122  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

self  am  cognizant  of  your  default  ;  for  during  the  conflict 
how  anxiously,  as  often  as  I  could,  did  I  look  toward  your 
frigate  !  Especial  care  could  not  be  fairly  taken  that  aid  at 
the  trying  moment  should  be  at  hand  :  other  vessels  were  no 
less  exposed  than  yours  ;  and  it  was  my  duty  to  avoid  all 
partiality  in  giving  my  support. 

Humphrey.  Grievous  as  my  short-coming  may  be,  surely 
I  am  not  precluded  from  what  benefit  the  testimony  of  my 
friends  may  afford  me. 

Blake.  Friends!  —  ah,  thou  hast  many,  Humphrey  !  and 
many  hast  thou  well  deserved.  In  youth,  in  boyhood,  in 
childhood,  thy  honied  temper  brought  ever  warm  friends 
about  thee.  Easiness  of  disposition  conciliates  bad  and 
good  alike  ;  it  draws  affections  to  it,  and  relaxes  enmities  : 
but  that  same  easiness  renders  us,  too  often,  negligent  of 
our  graver  duties.  God  knows,  I  may  without  the  same 
excuse  (if  it  is  any)  be  impeached  of  negligence  in  many  of 
mine  ;  but  never  where  the  honour  or  safety  of  my  country 
was  concerned.  Wherefore  the  Almighty's  hand,  in  this 
last  battle,  as  in  others  no  less  prosperous,  hath  conducted 
and  sustained  me. 

Humphrey  !  did  thy  heart  wax  faint  within  thee  through 
want  of  confidence  in  our  sole  Deliverer? 

Hjunphrey.     Truly  I  have  no  such  plea. 

Blake.     It  were  none  ;  it  were  an  aggravation. 

Humphrey.  I  confess  I  am  quite  unable  to  offer  any 
adequate  defence  for  my  backwardness,  my  misconduct. 
Oh  !  could  the  hour  return,  the  battle  rage  again  !  How 
many  things  are  worse  than  death  !  —  how  few  things  better  ! 
I  am  twelve  years  younger  than  you  are,  brother,  and  want 
your  experience. 

Blake.  Is  that  your  only  want  .^  Deplorable  is  it  to 
know,  as  now  I  know,  that  you  will  never  have  it,  and  that 
you  will  have  a  country  which  you  can  never  serve. 


ADMIRAL    BLAKE   AND   IIUMPHREY  BLAKE.       123 

Humphrey.     Deplorable  it  is,  indeed.     God  help  me  ! 

Blake.  Worse  evil  soon  may  follow, — worse  to  me, 
remembering  thy  childhood.  Merciful  Father  !  after  all  the 
blood  that  hath  been  shed  this  day,  must  I  devote  a  brother's? 

Humphrey.  O  Robert  !  —  always  compassionate,  always 
kind  and  generous!  —  do  nut  intiict  on  yourself  so  lasting  a 
calamity,  so  unavailing  a  regret. 

Listen! — not  to  me — but  listen.  I  hear  under  your 
bow  the  sound  of  oars.  I  hear  them  drawn  into  boats  : 
verily  do  I  believe  that  several  of  the  captains  are  come  to 
intercede  for  me,  as  they  said  they  would  do. 

Blake.  Intercession  is  vain.  Honourable  men  shall 
judge  you.  A  man  to  be  honourable  must  be  strictly  just, 
at  the  least.  Will  brave  men  spare  you  ?  It  lies  with 
them.  Whatever  be  their  sentence,  my  dut)-  is  (God  give 
me  strength  !)  to  execute  it. 

Gentlemen  !   who  sent  for  you?  \_0_(ficers  eome  aboard. 

Senior  Offieer.  General  !  we,  the  captains  of  your  fleet, 
come  before  you  upon  the  most  painful  of  duties. 

Blake  {to  himself).  I  said  so  :  his  doom  is  sealed.  {To 
Senior  Offieer.)  Speak,  sir  !  speak  out,  1  say.  A  man  who 
hath  fought  so  bravely  as  you  have  fought  to-day  ought  never 
to  hesitate  and  falter. 

Senior  Offieer.  General  !  we  grieve  to  say  that  Captain 
Humphrey  Blake,  commanding  a  frigate  in  the  service  of 
the  Commonwealth,  is  accused  of  remissness  in  his  duty. 

Blake.  I  know  it.  Where  is  the  accuser  ?  What  !  no 
answer  from  any  of  you  ?  Then  I  am  he.  Captain  Hum- 
phrey Blake  is  here  impleaded  of  neglecting  to  perform  his 
uttermost  in  the  seizure  or  destruction  of  the  enemy's  gal- 
leons. Is  the  crime  —  write  it,  write  it  down  !  —  no  need  to 
speak  it  here  —  capital  ?  Negligence  ?  no  worse  ?  But 
worse  can  there  be  ? 

Senior  Offieer.     We  would  humbly  represent  — 


1 24  IMA  G/A  'A  R  Y   CON  VERS  A  TIONS. 

Blake.  Representations,  if  made  at  all,  must  be  made 
elsewhere.  He  goes  forthwith  to  England.  Return  each 
of  you  to  his  vessel.  Delinquency,  grave  delinquency, 
there  hath  been,  of  what  nature  and  to  what  extent  you 
must  decide.  Take  him  away.  (^Ahtie.)  Just  God  !  am  I 
the  guilty  man,  that  I  should  drink  to  the  very  dregs  such 
a  cup  of  bitterness  ? 

Forgive,  forgive,  O  Lord  !  the  sinful  cry  of  thy  servant  ! 
Thy  will  be  done  !  I'hou  hast  shown  thy  power  this  day,  O 
Lord !  now  show,  and  make  me  worthy  of,  thy  mercy  ! 

Vario\is  and  arduous  as  were  Blake's  duties,  such  on  all  occasions 
were  his  circumspection  and  discretion,  that  no  fault  could  be  detected 
or  invented  in  him.  His  victories  were  won  against  all  calculation  but 
his  own.  Recollecting,  however  late,  his  services  ;  recollecting  that  in 
private  life,  in  political,  in  military,  his  purity  was  ever  the  same, — 
England  will  place  Robert  Ulake  the  foremost  and  the  liighest  of  her 
defenders.  He  was  the  archetype  of  her  Nelsons,  Collingwoods,  and 
I'ellevvs.  Of  all  the  men  that  ever  bore  a  sword,  none  was  worthier  of 
that  awful  trust. 

XXI. 

RHADAMISTUS    AND    ZENOBIA. 

Zciiobia.  My  beloved  !  my  beloved  !  I  can  endure  the 
motion  of  the  horse  no  longer  ;  his  weariness  makes  his 
pace  so  tiresome  to  me.  Surely  we  have  ridden  far,  very 
far,  from  home  ;  and  how  shall  we  ever  pass  the  wide  and 
rocky  stream,  among  the  whirlpools  of  the  rapid  and  the  deep 
Araxes  ?  From  tlic  first  sight  of  it,  O  my  husband,  you 
have  been  silent  ;  you  have  looked  at  me  at  one  time 
intensely,  at  nnother  wildly  :  have  you  mistaken  the  road, 
or  the  ford,  or  the  ferry? 

Rhadamistiis.  'I'ired,  tired,  did  you  say  ?  —  ay,  tliou 
must  be.  Here  thou  shalt  rest  :  this  before  us  is  the  place 
for  it.      Alight  ;  drop  into  my  arms  :  art  thou   within   them  ? 


RHADAMISTUS  AND   ZENOBIA.  125 

Zenobia.  Always  in  fear  for  me,  my  tender,  thoughtful 
Rhadamistus  ! 

Rhadaviistus.  Rhadamistus,  then,  once  more  embraces 
his  Zenobia  ! 

Zenobia.  And  presses  her  to  his  bosom  as  with  the  first 
embrace. 

Rhailamistiis.     What  is  the  first  to  the  last  ? 

Zenobia.     Nay,  this  is  not  the  last. 

Rhadamistus.  Not  quite  (oh,  agony  !),  not  quite  ;  once 
more. 

Zenobia.      So,  with  a  kiss  :  which  you  forget  to  take. 

Rhadamistus  (aside).  And  shall  this  shake  my  purpose  ? 
It  may  my  limbs,  my  heart,  my  brain  ;  but  what  my  soul  so 
deeply  determined  it  shall  strengthen,  as  winds  do  trees  in 
forests. 

Zenobia.  Come,  come  !  cheer  up.  How  good  you  are  to 
be  persuaded  by  me  :  back  again  at  one  word  !  Hark  ! 
where  are  those  drums  and  bugles  ?  On  which  side  are 
these  echoes  ? 

Rhadamistus.  Alight,  dear,  dear  Zenobia  !  and  does 
Rhadamistus,  then,  press  thee  to  his  bosom  ?     Can  it  be  ? 

Zenobia.  Can  it  cease  to  be  i  you  would  have  said,  my 
Rhadamistus  !  Hark !  again  those  trumpets  ?  On  which 
bank  of  the  water  are  they  ?  Now  they  seem  to  come  from 
the  mountains,  and  now  along  the  river.  Men's  voices  too  ! 
threats  and  yells  !     Vou,  my  Rhadamistus,  could  escape. 

Rhadamistus.  Wherefore  ?  with  whom  ?  and  whither  in 
all  Asia  ? 

Zenobia.     Fly  !  there  are  armed  men  climbing  up  the  cliffs. 

Rhadamistus.  It  was  only  the  sound  of  the  waves  in  the 
hollows  of  them,  and  the  masses  of  pebbles  that  rolled 
down  from  under  you  as  you  knelt  to  listen. 

Zenobia.  Turn  round  ;  look  behind  !  is  it  dust  yonder,  or 
smoke  ?     And  is  it  the   sun,  or  what   is  it,  shining   so  crim- 


126  IMAGINARY   COATF.KSATIONS. 

son?  —  not    shining    any   longer    now,   but   deep,   and   dull 
purple,  embodying  into  gloom. 

Rhadamisius.  It  is  the  sun,  about  to  set  at  mid-day  :  we 
shall  soon  see  no  more  of  him. 

Zenobia.  Indeed  !  what  an  ill  omen  !  Ikit  how  can  you 
tell  that?  Do  you  think  it?  I  do  not.  Alas!  alas!  the 
dust  and  liie  sounds  are  nearer. 

Rhadaiiiistiis.      Prepare,  then,  my  Zenobia  ! 

Zenobia.      I  was  always  prepared  for  it. 

Rhadamistus.  What  reason,  O  unconfiding  girl,  from  the 
day  of  our  union,  have  I  ever  given  you  to  accuse  or  to  sus- 
pect me? 

Zenobia.  None,  none  :  your  love,  even  in  these  sad 
moments,  raises  me  above  the  reach  of  fortune.  How  can 
it  pain  me  so  ?  Do  I  repine  ?  Worse  may  it  pain  me  ;  but 
let  tliat  love  never  pass  away  ! 

Rhadamistus.  Was  it,  then,  the  loss  of  power  and  king- 
dom for  which  Zenobia  was  prepared  ? 

Zenobia.  The  kingdom  was  lost  when  Rhadamistus  lost 
the  affection  of  his  subjects.  Why  did  they  not  love  you  ? 
How  could  they  not  ?     Tell  me  so  strange  a  thing. 

Rhadamistus.  Fables,  fables  !  about  the  death  of  Mithri- 
dates  and  his  children  ;  declamations,  out-cries,  as  if  it  were 
as  easy  to  bring  men  to  life  again  as  —  I  know  not  what  — 
to  call  after  them. 

Zenobia.     Ikit  about  the  children  ? 

Rhadamistus.      In  all  governments  there  are  secrets. 

Zenobia.      Between  us  ? 

Rhadamistus.  No  longer  :  time  presses  ;  not  a  moment 
is  left  us,  not  a  refuge,  not  a  hope  ! 

Zenobia.     Then,  why  draw  the  sword  ? 

Rhadamistus.  Wanted  I  courage  ?  Did  1  not  fight  as 
becomes  a  king  ? 

Zenobia.     True,  most  true. 


RHADAMISTUS  AND   ZENOBIA.  \11 

Rhadamistus.  Is  my  resolution  lost  to  me  ?  Did  1  but 
dream  I  had  it  ? 

Zenohia.  Nobody  is  v/iry  near  yet  ;  nor  can  they  cross 
the  dell  where  we  did.  Those  are  tied  who  could  have 
shown  the  pathway.  Think  not  of  defending  me.  Listen  ! 
look  !  what  thousands  are  coming  !  The  protecting  blade 
above  my  head  can  only  provoke  the  enemy.  And  do  you 
still  keep  it  there  ?  You  grasp  my  arm  too  hard.  Can  you 
look  unkindly?  Can  it  be?  Oh!  think  again  and  spare 
me,  Rhadamistus  !  From  the  vengeance  of  man,  from  the 
judgments  of  heaven,  the  unborn  may  preserve  my  hus- 
band. 

Rhadamistus.  We  must  die  !  They  advance  ;  they  see 
us  ;  they  rush  forward  ! 

Zenobia.  Me,  me  would  you  strike?  Rather  let  me  leap 
from  the  precipice. 

Rhadamistus.  Hold  !  Whither  would  thy  desperation  ? 
Art  thou  again  within  my  grasp  ? 

Zenobia.  O  my  beloved  !  never  let  me  call  you  cruel. 
Let  me  love  you  in  the  last  hour  of  seeing  you  as  in  the 
first.  I  must,  I  must  ;  and  be  it  my  thought  in  death  that 
you  love  me  so  !  I  would  have  cast  away  my  life  to  save 
you  from  remorse  :  it  may  do  that  and  more,  preserved  by 
you.  Listen  !  listen  !  among  those  who  pursue  us  there 
are  many  fathers  ;  childless  by  his  own  hand,  none.  Do 
not  kill  our  baby  —  the  best  of  our  hopes  when  we  had 
many —  the  baby  not  yet  ours  !  \\'ho  shall  then  plead  for 
you,  my  unhappy  husband? 

Rhadamistus.  My  honour  ;  and  before  me,  sole  arbiter 
and  sole  audience  of  our  cause.  Bethink  thee,  Zenobia,  of 
the  indignities,  —  not  bearing  on  my  fortunes,  but  imminent 
over  thy  beauty  !  What  said  I  ?  —  did  I  bid  thee  think  of 
them  ?  Rather  die  than  imagine,  or  than  question  me, 
what  they  are  !     Let  me  endure  two  deaths  before  my  own, 


12S  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

crueller  than  wounds  or  than  age  or  than  servitude  could 
inriict  on  nie,  rather  than  make  me  name  them. 

Zenobia.  Strike  !  Lose  not  a  moment  so  precious  ! 
Why  hesitate  now,  my  generous,  brave  defender  ? 

Khadaviistus.     Zenobia,  dost  tiiou  bid  it  ? 

Zenobia.  Courage  is  no  longer  a  crime  in  you.  Hear 
the  shouts,  the  threats,  the  imprecations  !  Hear  them,  my 
beloved  !  let  mc,  no  more. 

R/iadainistiis,  Embrace  me  not,  Zenobia  !  Loose  me, 
loose  me  ! 

Zenobia.  I  cannot  :  thrust  me  away  !  Divorce  —  but 
with  death  —  the  disobedient  wife,  no  longer  your  Zenobia. 
{He  strikes?)  Oh!  oh!  one  innocent  head  —  in  how  few 
days  —  should  have  reposed — no,  not  upon  this  blood. 
Swim  across!  Is  there  a  descent — an  easy  one,  a  safe 
one,  anywhere  ?  I  might  have  found  it  for  you  !  Ill-spent 
time  !  heedless  woman  ! 

Kliadaiuistus.  An  arrow  hath  pierced  me :  more  are 
showering  round  us.  Go,  my  life's  flower  !  the  blighted 
branch  drops  after.  Away  !  forth  into  the  stream  !  strength 
is  yet  left  me  for  it.  {He  throivs  her  into  the  river.)  She 
sinks  not  !  Oh,  last  calamity  !  She  sinks  !  she  sinks  ! 
Now  both  are  well,  and  fearless  !  One  look  more  !  grant 
one  more  look  !  (Jn  what  ?  where  was  it .'  which  whirl  ? 
which  ripple  ?  they  are  gone  too.  How  calm  is  the  haven 
of  the  most  troubled  life!  1  enter  it!  Rebels!  traitors! 
slaves  !  subjects  !  why  gape  ye  ?  why  halt  ye  .-^  On,  on, 
dastards  !  Oh  that  ye  dared  to  follow  !  {He plunges,  armed, 
into  the  A  raxes.) 


EPICURUS,   LEONTION,   AND    TEKNISSA.  129 

XXII. 
EPICURUS,    LEONTION,    AND   TERNISSA. 

Epicurus.  The  place  commands,  in  my  opinion,  a  most 
perfect  view. 

Leontion.     Of  what,  pray  .'' 

Epicurus.  Of  itself  ;  seeming  to  indicate  that  we,  Leon- 
tion, who  philosophize,  shoidd  do  the  same. 

Leontion.  Go  on,  go  on  !  say  what  you  please  :  I  will  not 
hate  any  thing  yet.  Why  have  you  torn  up  by  the  root  all 
these  little  mountain  ash-trees  ?  This  is  the  season  of  their 
beauty :  come,  Ternissa,  let  us  make  ourselves  necklaces  and 
armlets,  such  as  may  captivate  old  Sylvan  us  and  Pan  ;  you 
shall  have  your  choice.     But  why  have  you  torn  them  up  .^ 

Epicurus.  On  the  contrary,  they  were  brought  hither  this 
morning.  Sosimenes  is  spending  large  sums  of  money  on 
an  olive-ground,  and  has  uprooted  some  hundreds  of  them, 
of  all  ages  and  sizes.  I  shall  cover  the  rougher  part  of  the 
hill  with  them,  setting  the  clematis  and  vine  and  honey- 
suckle against  them,  to  unite  them. 

lernissa.  Oh  what  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  walk  in  the 
green  light  of  the  vine-leaves,  and  to  breathe  the  sweet 
odour  of  their  invisible  flowers  ! 

Epicurus.  The  scent  of  them  is  so  delicate  that  it  requires 
a  sigh  to  inhale  it  ;  and  this,  being  accompanied  and  fol- 
lowed by  enjoyment,  renders  the  fragrance  so  exquisite. 
Ternissa,  it  is  this,  my  sweet  friend,  that  made  you  remem- 
ber the  green  light  of  the  foliage,  and  think  of  the  invisible 
flowers  as  you  would  of  some  blessing  from  heaven. 

Ternissa.  I  see  feathers  flying  at  certain  distances  just 
above  the  middle  of  the  promontory  :  what  can  they  mean  "i 

Epicurus.  Cannot  you  imagine  them  to  be  feathers  from 
the  wings  of  Zethes  and   Calais,   who  came  hither  out  of 


130  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Thrace  to  behold  the  favourite  haunts  of  their  mother  Oreith- 
yia  ?  From  the  precipice  that  hangs  over  the  sea  a  few 
paces  from  the  pinasters  she  is  reported  to  have  been  carried 
off  by  Boreas  ;  and  these  remains  of  the  primeval  forest 
have  always  been  held  sacred  on  that  belief. 

Lcontion.     The  story  is  an  idle  one. 

Ternissa.     O  no,  Leontion  !  the  story  is  very  true. 

Leontion.     Indeed .'' 

Ternissa.  I  have  heard  not  only  odes,  but  sacred  and 
most  ancient  hymns,  upon  it ;  and  the  voice  of  Boreas  is 
often  audible  here,  and  the  screams  of  Oreithyia. 

Leontion.  The  feathers  then  really  may  belong  to  Calais 
and  Zethes. 

Ternissa.  I  don't  believe  it  ;  the  winds  would  have  car- 
ried them  away. 

Lcontion.  The  gods,  to  manifest  their  power  as  they  often 
do  by  miracles,  could  as  easily  fix  a  feather  eternally  on  the 
most  tempestuous-  promontory,  as  the  mark  of  their  feet 
upon  the  flint. 

Ternissa.  They  could  indeed  ;  but  we  know  the  one  to 
a  certainty,  and  have  no  such  authority  for  the  other.  I 
have  seen  these  pinasters  from  the  extremity  of  the  Pirajus, 
and  have  heard  mention  of  the  altar  raised  to  Boreas  : 
where  is  it  t 

Epicurus.  As  it  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  platform,  we 
cannot  see  it  from  hence  ;  there  is  the  only  piece  of  level 
ground  in  the  place. 

Leontion.  Ternissa  intends  the  altar  to  prove  the  truth 
of  the  story. 

Epicurus.  Ternissa  is  slow  to  admit  that  even  the  young 
can  deceive,  much  less  the  old  :  the  gay,  much  less  the 
serious. 

L^eontion.  It  is  as  wise  to  moderate  our  belief  as  our 
desires. 


EPICURUS,   LEONTION,   AND    TERNISSA.  131 

Epicurus.  Some  minds  require  mucli  belief,  some  thrive 
on  little.  Rather  an  exuberance  of  it  is  feminine  and 
beautiful.  It  acts  differently  on  different  hearts  ;  it 
troubles  some,  it  consoles  others  :  in  the  generous  it  is  the 
nurse  of  tenderness  and  kindness,  of  heroism  and  self- 
devotion  ;  in  the  ungenerous  it  fosters  pride,  impatience  of 
contradiction  and  appeal,  and,  like  some  waters,  what  it 
hnds  a  dry  stick  or  hollow  straw,  it  leaves  a  stone. 

Ternissa.  We  want  it  chietiy  to  make  the  way  of  death 
an  easy  one. 

Epicurus.  There  is  no  easy  path  leading  out  of  life,  and 
few  are  the  easy  ones  that  lie  within  it.  I  would  adorn  and 
smoothen  the  declivity,  and  make  my  residence  as  commo- 
dious as  its  situation  and  dimensions  may  allow  ;  but  prin- 
cipally I  would  cast  underfoot  the  empty  fear  of  death. 

Ternissa.     Oh!   how  can  you? 

Epicurus.  By  many  arguments  already  laid  down  :  then 
by  thinking  that  some  perhaps,  in  almost  every  age,  have 
been  timid  and  delicate  as  Ternissa  ;  and  yet  have  slept 
soundly,  have  felt  no  parent's  or  friend's  tear  upon  their 
faces,  no  throb  against  their  breasts  :  in  short,  have  been 
in  the  calmest  of  all  possible  conditions,  while  those  around 
were  in  the  most  deplorable  and  desperate. 

Ternissa.  It  would  pain  me  to  die,  if  it  were  only  at  the 
idea  that  any  one  I  love  would  grieve  too  much  for  me. 

Epicurus.  Let  the  loss  of  our  friends  be  our  only  grief, 
and  the  apprehension  of  displeasing  them  our  only  fear. 

Leontion.  No  apostrophes  !  no  interjections  !  Your 
argument  was  unsound  ;  your  means  futile. 

Epicurus.  Tell  me,  then,  whether  the  horse  of  a  rider  on 
the  road  should  not  be  spurred  forward  if  he  started  at  a 
shadow. 

Leojition.     Yes. 

Epicurus,     I  thought  so  :  it  would  however  be  better  to 


132  JMAuIXAKY   COAVERSATIONS. 

guide  him  quietly  up  to  it,  and  tu  show  him  that  it  was  one. 
Death  is  less  than  a  shadow  :  it  represents  nothing,  even 
imperfectly. 

Lcontion.  Then  at  the  best  what  is  it  ?  why  care  about 
it,  think  about  it,  or  remind  us  that  it  must  befall  us .'' 
Would  you  take  the  same  trouble,  when  you  see  my  hair 
entwined  with  ivy,  to  make  me  remember  that,  although  the 
leaves  are  green  and  pliable,  the  stem  is  fragile  and  rough, 
and  that  before  I  go  to  bed  I  shall  have  many  knots  and 
entanglements  to  extricate  ?  Let  me  have  them  ;  but  let 
me  not  hear  of  them  until  the  time  is  come. 

Epicurus.  I  would  never  think  of  death  as  an  embarrass- 
ment, but  as  a  blessing. 

Tcrnissa.      How  !   a  blessing  ? 

Epicurus.  What,  if  it  makes  our  enemies  cease  to  hate 
us  ?  what,  if  it  makes  our  friends  love  us  the  more  ? 

Leontion.  Us?  According  to  your  doctrine,  we  shall  not 
exist  at  all. 

Epicurus.  I  spoke  of  that  which  is  consolatory  while  we 
are  here,  and  of  that  whicli  in  plain  reason  ought  to  render 
us  contented  to  stay  no  longer.  Vou,  Leontion,  would 
make  others  better ;  and  better  they  certainly  will  be,  when 
their  hostilities  Lmguish  in  an  empty  field,  and  their  rancour 
is  tired  with  treading  upon  dust.  The  generous  affections 
stir  about  us  at  the  dreary  hour  of  death,  as  the  blossoms 
of  the  Median  apple  swell  and  diffuse  their  fragrance  in  the 
cold. 

Tertiissa.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  passing  the  Styx, 
lest  Charon  should  touch  me  ;  he  is  so  old  and  wilful,  so 
cross  and  ugly. 

Epicurus.  Ternissa  !  Ternissa  !  I  would  accompany  you 
thither,  and  stand  between.      Would  you  not  too,  Leontion.-' 

Leontion.      I  don't  know. 

Ternissa.     Oh  !    that  we  could  go  together  ! 


EPICURUS,   LEONTION,   AND    TEKNISSA.  133 

Leontion.     Indeed ! 

Ternissa.  All  three,  I  mean  —  I  said  —  or  was  going  to 
say  it.  How  ill-natured  you  are,  Leontion,  to  misinterpret 
me  ;   I  could  almost  cry. 

Leontion.  Do  not,  do  not,  Ternissa  !  Should  that  tear 
drop  from  your  eyelash  you  would  look  less  beautiful. 

Epicurus.  Whenever  1  see  a  tear  on  a  beautiful  young 
face,  twenty  of  mine  run  to  meet  it.  If  it  is  well  to  con- 
quer a  world,  it  is  better  to  conquer  two. 

Ternissa.  That  is  what  Alexander  of  Macedon  wept 
because  he  could  not  accomplish. 

Epicurus.  Ternissa  !  we  three  can  accomplish  it;  or  any 
one  of  us. 

Ternissa.      How  ?  pray  ! 

Epicurus.  We  can  conquer  this  world  and  the  next ;  for 
you  will  have  another,  and  nothing  should  be  refused  you. 

Ternissa.     The  next  by  piety  :  but  this,  in  what  manner  1 

Epicurus.  By  indifference  to  all  who  are  indifferent  to 
us;  by  taking  joyfully  the  benefit  that  comes  spontaneously  ; 
by  wishing  no  more  intensely  for  what  is  a  hair's  breadth 
beyond  our  reach  than  for  a  draught  of  water  from  the 
Ganges  ;  and  by  fearing  nothing  in  another  life. 
'  Ternissa.      This,  O  Epicurus  !   is  the  grand  impossibility. 

Epicurus.  Do  you  believe  the  gods  to  be  as  benevolent 
and  good  as  you  are  ?  or  do  you  not  1 

Ternissa.      Much  kinder,  much  better  in  every  way. 

Epicurus.  Would  you  kill  or  hurt  the  sparrow  that  j'ou 
keep  in  your  little  dressing-room  with  a  string  around  the 
leg,  because  he  hath  flown  where  you  did  not  wish  him  to 
fly.? 

Ternissa.  No  !  it  would  be  cruel  ;  the  string  about  the 
leg  of  so  little  and  weak  a  creature  is  enough. 

Epicurus.  \o\x  think  so  ;  I  think  so  ;  God  thinks  so. 
This  I  may  say  confidently:   for  whenever  there  is  a  senti- 


134  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

ment  in  which  strict  justice  and   pure  benevolence  unite,  it 
must  be  His. 


Epicurus.  Leontion  and  Ternissa,  those  eyes  of  yours 
brighten  at  inquiry,  as  if  they  carried  a  light  within  them 
for  a  guidance. 

Leontion.     No  flattery  ! 

Ternissa.     No  flattery  !     Come,  teach  us  ! 

Epicurus.     Will  you  hear  me  through  in  silence  ? 

Leontion.     We  promise. 

Epicurus.  Sweet  girls  !  the  calm  pleasures,  such  as  I 
hope  you  will  ever  find  in  your  walks  among  these  gardens, 
will  improve  your  beauty,  animate  your  discourse,  and  cor- 
rect the  little  that  may  hereafter  rise  up  for  correction  in 
your  dispositions.  The  smiling  ideas  left  in  our  bosoms 
from  our  infancy,  that  many  plants  are  the  favourites  of  the 
gods,  and  that  others  were  even  the  objects  of  their  love,  — 
having  once  been  invested  with  the  human  form,  beautiful 
and  lively  and  happy  as  yourselves,  —  give  them  an  interest 
beyond  the  vision  ;  yes,  and  a  station  —  let  me  say  it  —  on 
the  vestibule  of  our  affections.  Resign  your  ingenuous  hearts 
to  simple  pleasures  ;  and  there  is  none  in  man,  where  m5n 
are  Attic,  that  will  not  follow  and  outstrip  their  movements. 
Ternissa.     O  Epicurus  ! 

Epicurus.     What  said  Ternissa  ? 

Leontion.  Some  of  those  anemones,  I  do  think,  must  be 
still  in  blossom.  Ternissa's  golden  cup  is  at  home  ;  but 
she  has  brought  with  her  a  little  vase  for  the  philter  —  and 
has  filled  it  to  the  brim.  -  Do  not  hide  your  head  behind 
my  shoulder,  Ternissa  ;  no,  nor  in  my  lap. 

Epicurus.  Yes,  there  let  it  lie,  the  lovelier  for  that  ten- 
dril of  sunny  brown  hair  upon  it.  How  it  falls  and  rises  ! 
Which  is  the  hair  ?  which  the  shadow  t 


EPICURUS,   LEONTION,   AND    TERNISSA.  135 

Leontion.     Let  the  hair  rest. 

Epicurus.     I  must  not,  perhaps,  clasp  the  shadow  ! 

Leontion.  Yuu  philosophers  are  fond  of  such  unsubstan- 
tial things.  Oh,  you  have  taken  my  volume  !  This  is 
deceit. 

You  live  so  little  in  public,  and  entertain  such  a  contempt 
for  opinion,  as  to  be  both  indifferent  and  ignorant  what  it  is 
that  people  blame  you  for. 

Epicurus.  I  know  what  it  is  I  should  blame  myself  for, 
if  I  attended  to  them.  Prove  them  to  be  wiser  and  more 
disinterested  in  their  wisdom  than  I  am,  and  I  will  then  go 
down  to  them  and  listen  to  them.  When  I  have  well  con- 
sidered a  thing,  I  deliver  it,  —  regardless  of  what  those 
think  who  neither  take  the  time  nor  possess  the  faculty  of 
considering  any  thing  well,  and  who  have  always  lived  far 
remote  from  the  scope  of  our  speculations. 

Leontion.  In  the  volume  you  snatched  away  from  me  so 
slily,  I  have  defended  a  position  of  yours  which  many 
philosophers  turn  into  ridicule  ;  namely,  that  politeness  is 
among  the  virtues.  I  wish  you  yourself  had  spoken  more 
at  large  upon  the  subject. 

Epicurus.  It  is  one  upon  which  a  lady  is  likely  to  dis- 
play more  ingenuity  and  discernment.  If  philosophers  have 
ridiculed  my  sentiment,  the  reason  is,  it  is  among  those 
virtues  which  in  general  they  find  most  difficult  to  assume 
or  counterfeit. 

Leontion.  Surely  life  runs  on  the  smoother  for  this  equa- 
bility and  polish  ;  and  the  gratification  it  affords  is  more 
extensive  than  is  afforded  even  by  the  highest  virtue.  Cour- 
age, on  nearly  all  occasions,  inflicts  as  much  of  evil  as  it 
imparts  of  good.  It  may  be  exerted  in  defence  of  our 
country,  in  defence  of  those  who  love  us,  in  defence  of  the 
harmless  and  helpless;  but  those  against  whom  it  is  thus 
exerted  may  possess  an  equal  share  of  it.     If  they  succeed, 


136  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

then  manifestly  the  ill  it  produces  is  greater  than  the  benefit ; 
if  they  succumb,  it  is  nearly  as  great.  For  many  of  their 
adversaries  are  first  killed  and  maimed,  and  many  of  their  own 
kindred  are  left  to  lament  the  consequences  of  the  aggression. 

Epicurus.  You  have  spoken  first  of  courage,  as  that 
virtue  wi;ich  attracts  your  sex  principally. 

Tcniissa.  Not  me  ;  I  am  always  afraid  of  it.  I  love 
those  best  who  can  tell  me  the  most  things  I  never  knew 
before,  and  who  have  patience  with  me,  and  look  kindly 
while  they  teach  me,  and  almost  as  if  they  were  waiting  for 
fresh  questions.  Now  let  me  hear  directly  what  you  were 
about  to  say  to  Leontion. 

Epicurus.  I  was  proceeding  to  remark  that  temperance 
comes  next  ;  and  temperance  has  then  its  highest  merit 
when  it  is  the  support  of  civility  and  politeness.  So  that  1 
think  I  am  right  and  equitable  in  attributing  to  politeness  a 
distinguished  rank,  not  among  the  ornaments  of  life,  but 
among  the  virtues.  And  you,  Leontion  and  Ternissa,  will 
have  leaned  the  more  propensely  toward  this  opinion,  if 
you  considered,  as  I  am  sure  you  did,  that  the  peace  and 
concord  of  families,  friends,  and  cities  are  preserved  by  it; 
in  other  terms,  the  harmony  of  the  world. 

Ternissa.  Leontion  spoke  of  courage,  you  of  temper- 
ance ;  the  next  great  virtue,  in  the  division  made  by  the 
philosophers,  is  justice. 

Epicurus.  Temperance  includes  it ;  for  temperance  is 
imperfect  if  it  is  only  an  abstinence  from  too  much  food,  too 
much  wine,  too  much  conviviality  or  other  luxury.  It  indi- 
cates every  kind  of  forbcnrance.  Justice  is  forbearance 
from  what  belongs  to  another.  Giving  to  this  one  rightly 
what  that  one  would  hold  wrongfully  is  justice  in  magistra- 
ture,  not  in  the  abstract,  and  is  only  a  part  of  its  ofiice. 
The  perfectly  temperate  man  is  also  the  perfectly  just  man  ; 
but  the  perfectly  just  man  (as  philosophers  now  define  him) 


EPICURUS,   LKONTION,   AND    TERNISSA.  137 

may  not  be  the  perfectly  temperate  one.  I  include  the  less 
in  the  greater. 

Leontion.  We  hear  of  judges,  and  upright  ones,  too, 
being  immoderate  eaters  and  drinkers. 

Epicurus.  The  Lacedemonians  are  temperate  in  food 
and  courageous  in  battle  ;  but  men  like  these,  if  they  existed 
in  sufficient  numbers,  would  devastate  the  universe.  We 
alone,  we  Athenians,  with  less  military  skill  perhaps,  and 
certainly  less  rigid  abstinence  from  voluptuousness  and 
luxury,  have  set  before  it  the  only  grand  example  of  social 
government  and  of  polished  life.  From  us  the  seed  is  scat- 
tered ;  from  us  flow  the  streams  that  irrigate  it ;  and  ours 
are  the  hands,  O  Leontion,  that  collect  it,  cleanse  it,  deposit 
it,  and  convey  and  distribute  it  sound  and  weighty  through 
every  race  and  age.  Exhausted  as  we  are  by  war,  we  can 
do  nothing  better  than  lie  down  and  doze  while  the  weather 
is  fine  overhead,  and  dream  (if  we  can)  that  we  are  affluent 
and  free. 

O  sweet  sea-air !  how  bland  art  thou  and  refreshing ! 
breathe  upon  Leontion  !  breathe  upon  Ternissa  !  bring 
them  health  and  spirits  and  serenity,  many  springs  and 
many  summers,  and  when  the  vine-leaves  have  reddened 
and  rustle  under  their  feet  ! 

These,  my  beloved  girls,  are  the  children  of  Kternity: 
they  played  around  Theseus  and  the  beauteous  Amazon  ; 
they  gave  to  Pallas  the  bloom  of  Venus,  and  to  Venus  the 
animation  of  Pallas.  Is  it  not  better  to  enjoy  by  the  hour 
their  soft,  salubrious  influence,  than  to  catch  by  fits  the 
rancid  breath  of  demagogues  ;  than  to  swell  and  move  under 
it  without  or  against  our  will ;  than  to  acquire  the  semblance 
of  eloquence  by  the  bitterness  of  passion,  the  tone  of  philos- 
ophy by  disappointment,  or  the  credit  of  prudence  by  dis- 
trust ?  Can  fortune,  can  industry,  can  desert  itself,  bestow 
on  us  any  thing  we  have  not  here  ? 


138  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Leofition.  And  when  shall  those  three  meet  ?  The  gods 
have  never  united  them,  knowing  that  men  would  put  them 
asunder  at  their  first  appearance. 

Epicurus.  I  am  glad  to  leave  the  city  as  often  as  possi- 
ble, full  as  it  is  of  high  and  glorious  reminiscences,  and  am 
inclined  much  rather  to  indulge  in  quieter  scenes,  whither 
the  Graces  and  Friendship  lead  me.  1  would  not  contend 
even  with  men  able  to  contend  with  me.  You,  Leontion,  I 
see,  think  differently,  and  have  composed  at  last  your  long- 
meditated  work  agairist  the  philosophy  of  Theophrastus. 

Leontion.  Why  not  ?  he  has  been  praised  above  his 
merits. 

Epicurus.  My  Leontion  !  you  have  inadvertently  given 
me  the  reason  and  origin  of  all  controversial  writings.  They 
How  not  from  a  love  of  truth  or  a  regard  for  science,  but 
from  envy  and  ill-will.  Setting  aside  the  evil  of  malignity  — 
always  hurtful  to  ourselves,  not  always  to  others  —  there  is 
weakness  in  the  argument  you  have  adduced.  When  a 
writer  is  praised  above  his  merits  in  his  own  times,  he  is 
certain  of  being  estimated  below  them  in  the  times  succeed- 
ing. Paradox  is  dear  to  most  people  :  it  bears  the  appear- 
ance of  originality,  but  is  usually  the  talent  of  the  superficial, 
the  perverse,  and  the  obstinate. 


XXIII. 
WALTON,    COTTON,    AND    OLDWAYS. 

VVallon.  G(;d  be  with  thee  and  preserve  thee,  old  Ash- 
bourne !  Thou  art  verily  the  pleasantest  place  upon  His 
earth  ;  I  mean  from  May-day  till  Michaelmas.  Son  Cotton, 
let  us  tarry  a  little  here  upon  the  bridge.  Did  you  ever  see 
greener  meadows  than  these  on  either  hand  ?  And  what 
says  that  fine  lofty  spire  upon  the  left,  a  trowling-line's  cast 


WALTON,   COTTON,  AND    OLDIVAVS.  139 

from  us  ?  It  says  methinks,  "  Blessed  be  the  Lord  for  this 
bounty  :  come  hither  and  repeat  it  beside  me."  How  my 
jade  winces  !  I  wish  the  strawberry-spotted  trout,  and  ash- 
coloured  grayling  under  us,  had  the  bree  that  plagues  thee 
so,  my  merry  wench  !  Look,  my  son,  at  the  great  venerable 
house  opposite.  You  know  these  parts  as  well  as  I  do,  or 
better  ;  are  you  acquainted  with  the  worthy  who  lives  over 
there  ? 

Cotton.     I  cannot  say  I  am. 

Walton.  You  shall  be  then.  He  has  resided  here  forty- 
five  years,  and  knew  intimately  our  good  Doctor  Donne,  and 
(I  hear)  hath  some  of  his  verses,  written  when  he  was  a 
stripling  or  little  better,  the  which  we  come  after. 

Cotton.  That,  I  imagine,  must  be  he  !  —  the  man  in  black, 
walking  above  the  house. 

Walton.  Truly  said  on  both  counts.  Willy  Oldways, 
sure  enough  ;  and  he  doth  walk  above  his  house-top.  The 
gardens  here,  you  observe,  overhang  the  streets. 

Cotton.  Ashbourne,  to  my  mind,  is  the  prettiest  town  in 
England. 

Walton.  And  there  is  nowhere  between  Trent  and  Tweed 
a  sweeter  stream  for  the  trout,  I  do  assure  you,  than  the  one 
our  horses  are  bestriding.  Those,  in  my  opinion,  were  very 
wise  men  who  consecrated  certain  streams  to  the  Muses  :  I 
know  not  whether  I  can  say  so  much  of  those  who  added  the 
mountains.  Whenever  I  am  beside  a  river  or  rivulet  on  a 
sunny  day,  and  think  a  little  while,  and  let  images  warm  into 
life  about  me,  and  joyous  sounds  increase  and  multiply  in 
their  innocence,  the  sun  looks  brighter  and  feels  warmer, 
and  I  am  readier  to  live,  and  less  unready  to  die. 

Son  Cotton  !  these  light  idle  brooks, 
Peeping  into  so  many  nooks, 
Yet  have  not  for  their  idlest  wave 
The  leisure  you  may  think  they  have: 


140  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

No,  not  the  little  ones  that  run 

And  hide  behind  the  first  big  stone, 

When  they  have  squirted  in  the  eye 

Of  their  next  neighbour  passing  l^y; 

Nor  yonder  curly  sideling  fellow 

Of  tones  than  Pan's  own  flute  more  mellow, 

Who  learns  his  tune  and  tries  it  over 

As  girl  who  fain  would  please  her  lover. 

Something  has  each  of  them  to  say  ; 

He  says  it  and  then  runs  away, 

And  says  it  in  another  place, 

Continuing  the  unthrifty  chase. 

We  have  as  many  tales  to  tell, 

And  look  as  gay  and  run  as  well, 

But  leave  another  to  pursue 

What  we  had  promised  we  would  do ; 

Till  in  the  order  God  has  fated. 

One  after  one  precipitated. 

Whether  we  would  on,  or  would  not  on. 

Just  like  these  idle  waves,  son  Cotton  ! 

And  now  I  have  taken  you  by  surprise,  I  will  have 
(finished  or  unfinished)  the  verses  you  snatched  out  of  my 
hand,  and  promised  me  another  time,  when  you  awoke  this 
morning. 

Cotton.     If  you  must  have  them,  here  they  are. 

Walton  (reads). 

Rocks  under  Okeover  park-paling 
Better  than  Ashbourne  suit  the  grayling. 
Reckless  of  people  springs  the  trout, 
Tossing  his  vacant  head  about. 
And  his  distinction-stars,  as  one 
Not  to  Ik;  touched  but  looked  upon, 
And  smirks  askance,  as  wlio  should  say 
"  I  'd  lay  now  (if  I  e'er  did  lay) 
The  brightest  fly  that  shines  above. 
You  know  not  what  / 'w  thinking  of; 
Whatjj/w/  are,  I  can  plainly  tell 
And  so,  my  gentles,  fare  ye  well  !  " 


IVALTOjV,   cotton,  and    old  ways.  141 

Heigh  !  heigh  !  what  have  we  here  ?  —  a  double  hook  with 
a  bait  upon  each  side.  Faith  !  son  Cotton,  if  my  friend 
Oldways  had  seen  these,  —  not  the  verses  I  have  been  read- 
ing, but  these  others  I  have  run  over  in  silence,  —  he  would 
have  reproved  me,  in  his  mild  amicable  way,  for  my  friend- 
ship with  one  who,  at  two-and-twenty,  could  either  know  so 
much  or  invent  so  much  about  a  girl.  He  remarked  to  me, 
the  last  time  we  met,  that  our  climate  was  more  backward 
and  our  youth  more  forward  than  anciently  ;  and,  taking  out 
a  newspaper  from  under  the  cushion  of  his  arm-chair,  showed 
me  a  paragraph,  with  a  cross  in  red  ink,  and  seven  or  eight 
marks  of  admiration,  —  some  on  one  side,  some  on  the 
other,  —  in  which  there  was  mention  made  of  a  female 
servant,  who,  hardly  seventeen  years  old,  charged  her 
master's   son,   who   was  barely  two   older  — 

Cotton.      Nonsense  !  nonsense  !   impossible  ! 

Walton.  Why,  he  himself  seemed  to  express  a  doubt  ; 
for  beneath  was  written,  "Qu.,  if  perjured  —  which  God 
forbid  !     May  all  turn  out  to  His  glory  !  " 

Cotton.  But  really  I  do  not  recollect  that  paper  of  mine, 
if  mine  it  be,  which  appears  to  have  stuck  against  the 
Okeover  paling  lines. 

Walton.  Look  !  they  are  both  on  the  same  scrap.  Truly, 
son,  there  are  girls  here  and  there  who  might  have  said  as 
much  as  thou,  their  proctor,  hast  indicted  for  them  :  they 
have  such  froward  tongues  in  their  heads,  some  of  them. 
A  breath  keeps  them  in  motion,  like  a  Jew's  harp,  God 
knows  how  long.  If  you  do  not  or  will  not  recollect  the 
verses  on  this  endorsement,  I  will  read  them  again,  and 
aloud. 

Cotton.     Pray  do  not  balk  your  fancy. 

Walton  {reads). 

Where  's  my  apron  ?     I  will  gather 
Daffodils  and  kingcups,  rather 


142  JM AGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Than  have  fifty  silly  souls, 
False  as  cats  and  dull  as  owls, 
Looking  up  into  my  eyes 
And  half-blinding  me  with  sighs. 

Cats,  forsooth  !  Owls,  and  cry  you  mercy  !  Have  they 
no  better  words  than  those  for  civil  people  ?  Did  any  young 
woman  really  use  the  expressions,  bating  the  metre,  or  can 
you  have  contrived  them  out  of  pure  likelihood  ? 

Cotton.     I  will  not  gratify  your  curiosity  at  present. 

Walton.     Anon,  then. 

Here  I  stretch  myself  along, 
Tell  a  tale  or  sing  a  song, 
By  my  cousin  Sue  or  Bet  — 
And,  for  dinner  here  I  get 
Strawberries,  curds,  or  what  I  please, 
With  my  bread  upon  my  knees  ; 
And,  when  I  have  had  enough, 
Shake,  and  off  to  blind-niaii's-bnff. 

Spoken  in  the  character  of  a  maiden,  it  seems,  who  little 
knows,  in  her  innocence,  that  blmd-man'' s-buff  is  a  perilous 
game. 

You  are  looking,  I  perceive,  from  off  the  streamlet  toward 
the  church.  In  its  chancel  lie  the  first  and  last  of  the 
Cockaynes.  Whole  races  of  men  have  been  exterminated 
by  war  and  pestilence ;  families  and  names  have  slipped 
down  and  lost  themselves  by  slow  and  imperceptible  decay  : 
but  I  doubt  whether  any  breed  of  fish,  with  heron  and  otter 
and  angler  in  pursuit  of  it,  hath  been  extinguished  since  the 
Heptarchy.  They  might  humble  our  pride  a  whit,  methinks, 
though  they  hold  their  tongues.  The  people  here  entertain 
a  strange  prejudice  against  the  nine-eyes. 

Cotton.     What,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  is  that .'' 
Walton.     At  your  years,  do  not  you  know  1     It  is  a  tiny 
kind  of  lamprey,  a  finger  long ;  it  sticketh  to  the  stones  by 


IVALTON,   COTTON,  AND    OLD  WAYS.  143 

its  sucker,  and,  if  you  are  not  warier  and  more  knowing  than 
folks  in  general  from  the  South,  you  might  take  it  for  a 
weed  :  it  wriggles  its  whole  body  to  and  fro  so  regularly,  and 
is  of  that  dark  colour  which  subaqueous  weeds  are  often  of, 
as  though  they  were  wet  through  ;  which  they  are  not  any 
more  than  land-weeds,  if  one  may  believe  young  Doctor 
Plott,  who  told   me  so  in  confidence. 

Hold  my  mare,  son  Cotton.  I  will  try  whether  my  whip 
can  reach  the  window,  when  1  have  mounted  the  bank. 

Cotton.  Curious  !  the  middle  of  a  street  to  be  lower  than 
the  side  by  several  feet.  People  would  not  believe  it  in 
London  or  Hull. 

Walton.  Ho !  lass  !  tell  the  good  parson,  your  master, 
or  his  wife  if  she  be  nearer  at  hand,  that  two  friends  would 
dine  with  him  :  Charles  Cotton,  kinsman  of  Mistress  Cotton 
of  the  Peak,  and  his  humble  servant,  Izaak  Walton. 

Girl.  If  you  are  come,  gentles,  to  dine  with  my  master, 
I  will  make  another  kidney-pudding  first,  while  I  am  about 
it,  and  then  tell  him  ;  not  but  we  have  enough  and  to  spare, 
yet  master  and  mistress  love  to  see  plenty,  and  to  welcome 
with  no  such  peacods  as  words. 

Walton.     Go,  thou  hearty  jade  ;  trip  it,  and  tell  him. 

Cotton.  I  will  answer  for  it,  thy  friend  is  a  good  soul :  I 
perceive  it  in  the  heartiness  and  alacrity  of  the  wench. 
She  glories  in  his  hospitality,  and  it  renders  her  labour  a 
delight. 

Walton.  He  wants  nothing,  yet  he  keeps  the  grammar- 
school,  and  is  ready  to  receive,  as  private  tutor,  any  young 
gentleman  in  preparation  for  Oxford  or  Cambridge  ;  but 
only  one.  They  live  like  princes,  converse  like  friends,  and 
part  like  lovers. 

Cotton.  Here  he  comes  :  I  never  saw  such  a  profusion 
of  snow-white  hair. 

Walton.     Let  us  go  up  and  meet  him. 


144  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Ohhvays.  Welcome,  my  friends  !  will  you  walk  back  into 
the  house,  or  sit  awhile  in  the  shade  here  ? 

Walton.  We  will  sit  down  in  the  grass,  on  each  side  of 
your  arm-chair,  good  master  William.  Why,  how  is  this  ? 
here  are  tulips  and  other  flowers  by  the  thousand  growing 
out  of  the  turf.  You  are  all  of  a  piece,  my  sunny  saint : 
you  are  always  concealing  the  best  things  about  you,  except 
your  counsel,  your  raisin-wine,  and  your  money. 

Oldways.  The  garden  was  once  divided  by  borders.  A 
young  gentleman,  my  private  pupil,  was  fond  of  leaping  :  his 
heels  ruined  my  choicest  flowers,  ten  or  twenty  at  a  time. 
I  remonstrated  :  he  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  said, 
'•  My  dear  Mr.  Oldways,  in  these  borders  if  you  miss  a  flower 
you  are  uneasy  ;  now,  if  the  whole  garden  were  in  turf,  you 
would  be  delighted  to  discover  one.  Turf  it  then,  and  leave 
the  flowers  to  grow  or  not  to  grow,  as  may  happen."  I 
mentioned  it  to  my  wife  :  "  Suppose  we  do,"  said  she.  It 
was  don,e  ;  and  the  boy's  remark,  I  have  found  by  experience, 
is  true. 

Walton.  You  have  some  very  nice  flies  about  the  trees 
here,  friend  Oldways.  Charles,  do  prythee  lay  thy  hand 
upon  that  green  one.  He  has  it  !  he  has  it  !  bravely  done, 
upon  my  life  !  I  never  saw  any  thing  achieved  so  admirably  — 
not  a  wing  nor  an  antenna  the  worse  for  it.  Put  him  into 
this  box.  Thou  art  caught,  but  shall  catch  others  :  lie 
softly. 

Coitoii.  The  transport  of  Dad  Walton  will  carry  him  off 
(I  would  lay  a  wager;  from  the  object  of  his  ride. 

Oldways.      What  was  that,  sir.^ 

Cotton      Old  Donne,  1  suspect,  is  nothing  to  such  a  fly. 

Walton.      All  things  in  their  season. 

Cotton,      ('ome,  I  carried  the  rods  in  my  hand  all  the  w^ay. 

Oldways.  1  never  could  have  believed.  Master  Izaak,  that 
you  would  have  trusted  your  tackle  out  of  your  own  hand. 


IVALTOA^    COTTON,   AXD    OLD  WAYS.  145 

Walton.  Without  cogent  reason,  no,  indeed  :  but  —  let 
me  whisper. 

I  told  youngster  it  was  because  I  carried  a  hunting-whip, 
and  could  not  hold  that  and  rod  too.  But  why  did  I  carry 
it,  bethink  you  .'' 

Ohhcays.      1  cannot  guess. 

Walton.  1  imist  come  behind  your  chair  and  whisper 
softlier.  1  have  that  in  my  pocket  which  might  make  the 
dogs  inquisitive  and  troublesome,  —  a  rare  paste,  of  my  own 
invention.  When  son  Cotton  sees  me  draw  up  gill  after  gill, 
and  he  can  do  nothing,  he  will  respect  me,  —  not  that  I 
have  to  complain  of  him  as  yet, — and  he  shall  know  the 
whole  at  supper,  after  the  first  day's  sport. 

Cotton.      Have  you  asked  ? 

Walton.     Anon  :   have  patience. 

Cotton.  Will  no  reminding  do  t  Not  a  rod  or  line,  or 
fly  of  any  colour,  false  or  true,  shall  you  have,  Dad  Izaak, 
before  you  have  made  to  our  kind  host  here  your  intended 
application. 

Oldways.  No  ceremony  with  me,  I  desire.  Speak,  and 
have. 

Walton.  Oldways,  I  think  you  were  curate  to  Master 
Donne  ? 

Oldways.  When  I  was  first  in  holy  orders,  and  he  was 
ready  for  another  world. 

Walton.  I  have  heard  it  reported  that  you  have  some  of 
his  earlier  poetry. 

Oldways.  I  have  (I  believe)  a  trifle  or  two  ;  but,  if  he 
were  living,  he  would  not  wish  them  to  see  the  light. 

Walton.  Why  not? — he  had  nothing  to  fear:  his  fame 
was  established  ;   and  he  was  a  discreet  and  holy  man. 

Oldways.  He  was  almost  in  his  boyhood  when  he  wrote 
it,  being  but  in  his  twenty-third  year,  and  subject  to  fits  of 
love. 


146  M AGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Cottofi.  This  passion,  then,  cannot  have  had  for  its 
object  the  daughter  of  Sir  George  More,  whom  he  saw  not 
until  afterward. 

Ohhvixys.  No,  nor  was  that  worthy  lady  called  Margaret, 
as  was  this  ;  who  scattered  so  many  pearls  in  his  path,  he 
was  wont  to  say,  that  he  irod  uneasily  on  them,  and  could 
never  skip  them. 

Walton.     Let  us  look  at  them  in  his  poetry. 

Oldways.  I  know  not  whether  he  would  consent  thereto, 
were  he  living,  the  lines  running  so  totally  on  the  amorous. 

Walton.  Faith  and  troth  !  we  mortals  are  odd  fishes. 
We  care  not  how  many  see  us  in  choler,  when  we  rave  and 
bluster  and  make  as  much  noise  and  bustle  as  we  can  ;  but 
if  the  kindest  and  most  generous  affection  comes  across  us, 
we  suppress  every  sign  of  it,  and  hide  ourselves  in  nooks 
and  coverts.  Out  with  the  drawer,  my  dear  Oldways  :  we 
have  seen  Donne's  sting  ;  in  justice  to  liim,  let  us  now  have 
a  sample  of  his  honey. 

Olchvays.     Strange  that  you  never  asked  me  before. 

Walton.  I  am  fain  to  write  his  life,  now  one  can  sit  by 
Dove-side  and  hold  the  paper  upon  one's  knee,  without  fear 
that  some  unlucky  catchpole  of  a  rheumatism  tip  one  upon 
the  shoulder.  I  have  many  things  to  say  in  Donne's  favour  : 
let  me  add  to  them,  by  your  assistance,  that  he  not  only 
loved  well  and  truly,  as  was  proved  in  his  marriage,  — 
though  like  a  good  angler  he  changed  his  fly,  and  did  not  at 
all  seasons  cast  his  rod  over  the  same  water,  —  but  that  his 
heart  opened  early  to  the  genial  affections  ;  that  his  satire 
was  only  the  overflowing  of  his  wit ;  that  he  made  it  admin- 
ister to  his  duties  ;  that  he  ordered  it  to  officiate  as  he  would 
his  curate,  and  perform  half  the  service  of  the  church  for 
him. 

Cotton.     Pray,  who  was  the  object  of  his  affections  .^ 

Oldways.     The  damsel  was  Mistress  Margaret  Hayes. 


WALTON,    COTTON,   AND    OLD  WAYS.  147 

Cottoti.  I  am  curious  to  know,  if  you  will  indulge  my 
curiosity,   what  figure  of  a  woman   she  might  be. 

Olihvays.  She  was  of  lofty  stature,  red-haired  (which  some 
folks  dislike),  but  with  comely  white  eyebrows,  a  very  slender 
transparent  nose,  and  elegantly  thin  lips,  covering  with  due 
astringency  a  treasure  of  pearls  beyond  price,  which,  as  her 
lover  would  have  it,  she  never  ostentatiously  displayed. 
Her  chin  was  somewhat  long,  with  what  I  should  have 
simply  called  a  sweet  dimple  in  it,  quite  proportionate  :  but 
Donne  said  it  was  more  than  dimple ;  that  it  was  peculiar  ; 
that  her  angelic  face  could  not  have  existed  without  it,  nor 
it  without  her  angelic  face,  —  that  is,  unless  by  a  new  dis- 
pensation. He  was  much  taken  thereby,  and  mused  upon 
it  deeply  :  calling  it  in  moments  of  joyousness  the  cradle  of 
all  sweet  fancies,  and,  in  hours  of  suffering  from  her  sedate- 
ness,  the  vale  of  death. 

Walton.  So  ingenious  are  men  when  the  spring  torrent 
of  passion  shakes  up  and  carries  away  their  thoughts, 
covering  (as  it  were)  the  green  meadow  of  still  homely  life 
with  pebbles  and  shingle,  —  some  colourless  and  obtuse, 
some  sharp  and  sparkling. 

Cotton.     1  hope  he  was  happy  in  her  at  last. 

Ohhvays.  Ha  !  ha  !  here  we  have  'em.  Strong  lines ! 
Happy,  no ;  he  was  not  happy.  He  was  forced  to  renounce 
her,  by  what  he  then  called  his  evil  destiny  ;  and  wishing, 
if  not  to  forget  her,  yet  to  assuage  his  grief  under  the  im- 
pediments to  their  union,  he  made  a  voyage  to  Spain  and 
the  Azores  with  the  Earl  of  Essex.  When  this  passion  first 
blazed  out  he  was  in  his  twentieth  year ;  for  the  physicians 
do  tell  us  that  where  the  genius  is  ardent  the  passions  are 
precocious.  The  lady  had  profited  by  many  more  seasons 
than  he  had,  and  carried  with  her  manifestlv  the  fruits  of 
circumspection.  No  benefice  falling  unto  him,  nor  indeed 
there   being   fit  preparation,   she   submitted  to   the   will  of 


14S  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Providence.  Howbeit,  he  could  not  bring  his  mind  to 
reason  until  ten  years  after,  when  he  married  the  daughter 
of  the  worshipful  Sir  George  More. 

Cotton.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  arduous  step  of 
matrimony,  on  which  many  a  poor  fellow  has  broken  his 
shin,  is  a  step  geometrically  calculated  for  bringing  us  to 
reason  ;  but  I  have  seen  passion  run  up  it  in  a  minute,  and 
down  it  in  half  a  one. 

Oldways.  Young  gentleman  !  my  patron  the  doctor  was 
none  of  the  light-hearted  and  oblivious. 

Cotton.  Truly  I  should  think  it  a  hard  matter  to  forget 
such  a  beauty  as  his  muse  and  his  chaplain  have  described  ; 
at  least  if  one  had  ever  stood  upon  the  brink  of  matrimony 
with  her.  It  is  allowable,  I  hope,  to  be  curious  concerning 
the  termination  of  so  singular  an  attachment. 

Oldways.     She  would  listen  to  none  other. 

Cotton.  Surely  she  must  have  had  good  ears  to  have 
heard  one. 

Oldways.  No  pretender  had  the  hardihood  to  come  for- 
ward too  obtrusively.  Donne  had  the  misfortune,  as  he 
then  thought  it,  to  outlive  her,  after  a  courtship  of  about  five 
years,  which  enabled  him  to  contemplate  her  ripening 
beauties  at  leisure,  and  to  bend  over  the  opening  flowers  of 
her  virtues  and  accomplishments.  Alas!  they  were  lost  to 
the  world  (unless  by  example)  in  her  forty-seventh  spring. 

Cotton.  He  might  then  leisurely  bend  over  them,  and 
quite  as  easily  shake  the  seed  out  as  smell  them.  Did  she 
refuse  him,  then  ? 

Oldways.     He  dared  not  ask  her. 

Cotton.  Why,  verily,  I  should  have  boggled  at  that  said 
vale  {\  think)  myself. 

Oldways.  Izaak  !  our  young  friend  Master  Cotton  is  not 
sedate  enough  yet,  I  suspect,  for  a  right  view  and  percep- 
tion of  poetry.     I  doubt  whether  these  affecting  verses  on 


WALTON,    COTTON,   AND    OLDIVAYS.  149 

her  loss  will  move  him  greatly  ;  somewhat,  yes  :  there  is  in 
the  beginning  so  much  simplicity,  in  the  middle  so  much 
reflection,  in  the  close  so  much  grandeur  and  sublimity,  no 
scholar  can  peruse  them  without  strong  emotion.  Take, 
and  read  them. 

Cotton.  Come,  come  ;  do  not  keep  them  to  yourself,  dad  ! 
I  have  the  heart  of  a  man,  and  will  bear  the  recitation  as 
valiantly  as  may  be. 

Walton.  I  will  read  aloud  the  best  stanza  only.  What 
strong  language  ! 

"  Her  one  hair  would  hold  a  dragon, 
Her  one  eye  would  burn  an  earth  : 
Fall,  my  tears  !  fill  each  your  flagon  ! 
Millions  fall  !     A  dearth  !  a  dearth  !  " 

Cotton.  The  doctor  must  have  been  desperate  about  the 
fair  Margaret. 

Walton.  His  verses  are  fine,  indeed:  one  feels  for  him, 
poor  man  ! 

Cotton.  And  wishes  him  nearer  to  Stourbridge,  or  some 
other  glass-furnace.     He  must  have  been  at  great  charges. 

Oldways.  Lord  help  the  youth  !  Tell  him,  Izaak,  that 
is  poetical,  and  means  nothing. 

Walton.     He  has  an  inkling  of  it,  I  misgive  me. 

Cott07i.  How  could  he  write  so  smoothly  in  his  affliction, 
when  he  exhibited  nothing  of  the  same  knack  afterward  ? 

Walton.  I  don't  know  ;  unless  it  may  be  that  men's 
verses,  like  their  knees,  stiffen  by  age. 

Oldways.  I  do  like  vastly  your  glib  verses  ;  but  you 
cannot  be  at  once  easy  and  majestical. 

Walton.  It  is  only  our  noble  rivers  that  enjoy  this  privi- 
lege. The  greatest  conqueror  in  the  world  never  had  so 
many  triumphal  arches  erected  to  him  as  our  m'iddlesized 
brooks  have. 


150  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Ohhvays.  Now,  Master  Izaak,  by  your  leave,  I  do  think 
you  are  wrong  in  calling  them  triumphal.  The  ancients 
would  have  it  that  arches  over  waters  were  signs  of  sub- 
jection. 

Walton.  The  ancients  may  have  what  they  will,  except- 
ing your  good  company  for  the  evening,  which  (please  God  !) 
we  shall  keep  to  ourselves.  They  were  mighty  people  for 
subjection  and  subjugation. 

Oldways.     Virgil  says,  "  Ponteni  indignatus  Araxes." 

Walton.  Araxes  was  testy  enough  under  it,  I  dare  to 
aver.  But  what  have  you  to  say  about  the  matter,  son 
Cotton  ? 

Cotton.  I  dare  not  decide  either  against  my  father  or 
mine  host. 

Oldways.     So,  we  are  yet  no  friends. 

Cotton.  Under  favour,  then,  I  would  say  that  we  but 
acknowledge  the  power  of  rivers  and  runlets  in  bridging 
them ;  for  without  so  doing  we  could  not  pass.  We  are 
obliged  to  offer  them  a  crown  or  diadem  as  the  price  of 
their  acquiescence. 

Ohhvays.  Rather  do  I  think  that  we  are  feudatory  to 
them  much  in  the  same  manner  as  the  dukes  of  Normandy 
were  to  the  kings  of  France  ;  pulling  them  out  of  their  beds, 
or  making  them  lie  narrowly  and  uneasily  therein. 

Walton.  Is  that  between  thy  fingers,  Will,  another  piece 
of  honest  old  Donne's  poetry  ? 

Old7vays.  Yes  ;  these  and  one  otlier  are  the  only  pieces 
I  have  kept  :  for  we  often  throw  away  or  neglect,  in  the 
lifetime  of  our  friends,  those  things  which  in  some  following 
age  are  searched  after  through  all  the  libraries  in  the  world. 
What  I  am  about  to  read  he  composed  in  the  meridian  heat 
of  youth  and  genius. 

"  .She  was  so  beautiful,  had  (Jod  but  died 
For  her,  and  none  beside, 


WALTON,'  CO TTOiV,    AND    OLUn^AVS.  151 

Reeling  with  holy  joy  from  east  to  west 

Earth  would  have  sunk  down  blest  ; 
And,  burning  with  bright  zeal,  the  l)uoyant  Sun 

Cried  tliroiigh  his  worlds,  '  Well  done  !''' 

He  must  have  had  an  eye  on  the  Psalmist  ;  for  I  would 
not  asseverate  that  he  was  inspired,  Master  Walton,  in  the 
theological  sense  of  the  word  ;  but  I  do  verily  believe  I 
discover  here  a  thread  of  the  mantle. 

Cotton.  And  with  enough  of  the  nap  on  it  to  keep  him 
hot  as  a  muffin  when  one  slips  the  butter  in'. 

Olihvays.  True.  Nobody  would  dare  to  speak  thus  but 
from  authority.  The  Greeks  and  Romans,  he  remarked, 
had  neat  baskets,  but  scanty  simples  ;  and  did  not  press 
them  down  so  closely  as  they  might  have  done,  and  were 
fonder  of  nosegays  than  of  sweet-pots.  He  told  me  the  rose 
of  Paphos  was  of  one  species,  the  rose  of  Sharon  of  another. 
Whereat  he  burst  forth  to  the  purpose,  — 

"  Rather  give  me  the  lasting  rose  of  Sharon  : 
But  dip  it  in  the  oil  that  oil'd  thy  Ijcard,  O  Aaron  !  " 

Nevertheless,  I  could  perceive  that  he  was  of  so  equal  a 
mind  that  he  liked  them  equally  in  their  due  season.  These 
majestical  verses  — 

Cotton.     I  am  anxious  to  hear  the  last  of  'em. 

Ohiways.  No  wonder :  and  I  will  joyfully  gratify  so 
laudable  a  wish.     He  wrote  this  among  the  earliest  :  — 

"  Juno  was  proud,  Minerva  stern, 
Venus  would  rather  toy  than  learn  : 
What  fault  is  there  in  Margaret  Hayes  .' 
Her  iiigh  disdain  and  pointed  stays." 

I  do  not  know  whether,  it  being  near  our  dinner-time,  I 
ought  to  enter  so  deeply  as  I  could  into  a  criticism  on  it, 
which  the  doctor  himself,  in  a  sin""le  evening:,  tauo;ht  me 
how  to  do.     Charley  is  rather  of  the  youngest ;  but  I  will  be 


152  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

circumspect.  That  Juno  was  proud  may  be  learned  from 
Virgil.  The  following  passages  in  him  and  other  Latin 
poets  — 

Cotton.  We  will  examine  them  all  after  dinner,  my  dear 
sir. 

Ohlways.     The  nights  are  not  mighty  long;  but  we  shall 

find  time,  I  trust. 

"  Minerva  stern." 

Excuge  me  a  moment  :  my  Homer  is  in  the  study,  and  my 
memory  is  less  exact  than  it  was  formerly. 

Cotton.  Oh,  my  good  Mr.  Oldways  !  do  not  let  us  lose 
a  single  moment  of  your  precious  company.  Doctor  Donne 
could  require  no  support  from  these  heathens,  when  he  had 
the  dean  and  chapter  on  his  side. 

Ohhvays.  A  few  parallel  passages.  —  One  would  wish  to 
write  as  other  people  have  written. 

Cotton.     We  must  sleep  at  Uttoxeter. 

Oldways.     I  hope  not. 

Walton.  We  must,  indeed  ;  and,  if  we  once  get  into 
your  learning,  we  shall  be  carried  down  the  stream  without 
the  power  even  of  wishing  to  mount  it. 

Oldways.     Well,  1  will  draw  in,  then. 

"  Venus  would  rather  toy  than  learn." 

Now,  Master  Izaak,  does  that  evince  a  knowledge  of  the 
world,  a  knowledge  of  men  and  manners,  or  not .''  In  our 
days  we  have  nothing  like  it :  exquisite  wisdom  !  Reason 
and  meditate  as  you  ride  along,  and  inform  our  young  friend 
here  how  the  beautiful  trust  in  their  beauty,  and  how  little 
they  learn  from  experience,  and  how  they  trifle  and  toy. 
Certainlv  the  Venus  here  is  Venus  Urania ;  the  Doctor 
would  dissertate  upon  none  other  ;  yet  even  she,  being  a 
Venus — the  sex  is  the  sex  —  ay,  Izaak! 

"  Her  high  disdain  and  pointed  stays." 


WALTON,    COTTON,   AND    OLD  WAYS.  153 

Volumes  and  volumes  are  under  these  words.  Briefly,  he 
could  find  no  other  faults  in  his  beloved  than  the  defences 
of  her  virgin  chastity  against  his  marital  and  portly 
ardour.  What  can  he  more  delicately  or  more  learnedly 
expressed  ! 

Walton.  'I'his  is  the  poetry  to  reason  upon  from  morning 
to  night. 

Cotton.  By  my  conscience  is  it  !  He  wrongs  it  greatly 
who  ventures  to  talk  a  word  about  it,  unless  after  long 
reflection,  or  after  the  instruction  of  the  profound  author. 

Ohiways.  Izaak,  thou  hast  a  son  worthy  of  thee,  or 
about  to  become  so  —  tlie  son  here  of  thy  adoption  — 
how  grave  and  thoughtful  ! 

Walton.  These  verses  are  testimonials  of  a  fine  fancy  in 
Donne  ;  and  I  like  the  man  the  better  who  admits  Love 
into  his  study  late  and  early  :  for  which  two  reasons  I  seized 
the  lines  at  first  with  some  avidity.  On  second  thoughts, 
however.  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  insert  tiiem  in  my  biogra- 
phy, or  indeed  hint  at  the  origin  of  them.  In  the  whole  story 
of  his  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  Sir  George  More  there 
is  something  so  sacredly  romantic,  so  full  of  that  which  bursts 
from  the  tenderest  heart  and  from  the  purest,  that  I  would 
admit  no  other  light  or  landscape  to  the  portraiture.  For  if 
there  is  aught,  precedent  or  subsequent,  that  offends  our 
view  of  an  admirable  character,  or  intercepts  or  lessens  it, 
we  may  surely  cast  it  down  and  suppress  it,  and  neither  be 
called  injudicious  nor  disingenuous.  I  think  it  no  more 
requisite  to  note  every  fit  of  anger  or  of  love,  than  to  chroni- 
cle the  returns  of  a  hiccup,  or  the  times  a  man  rubs  between 
his  fingers  a  sprig  of  sweet  brier  to  extract  its  smell.  Let 
the  character  be  taken  in  the  complex  ;  and  let  the  more 
obvious  and  best  peculiarities  be  marked  plainly  and  dis- 
tinctly, or  (if  those  predominate)  the  worst.  These  latter  I 
leave  to  others,  of  whom  the  school  is  full,  who  like  anatomy 


1.S4  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

the  better  because  the  subject  of  their  incisions  M'as  hanged. 
When  I  would  sit  upon  a  bank  in  my  angling,  I  look  for  the 
even  turf,  and  do  not  trust  myself  so  willingly  to  a  rotten 
stump  or  a  sharp  one.  1  am  not  among  those  who,  speak- 
ing ill  of  the  virtuous,  say,  "  Truth  obliges  me  to  confess  — 
the  interests  of  learning  and  of  society  demand  from  me 
—  "  and  such  things  ;  when  this  truth  of  theirs  is  the  elder 
sister  of  malevolence,  and  teaches  her  half  her  tricks ; 
and  when  the  interests  of  learning  and  of  society  may  be 
found  in  the  printer's  ledger,  under  the  author's  name,  by 
the  side  of  shillings  and  pennies. 

Oldways.  Friend  Izaak,  you  are  indeed  exempt  from  all 
suspicion  of  malignity  ;  and  I  never  heard  you  intimate 
that  you  carry  in  your  pocket  the  Idtcrs-patcnt  of  society  for 
the  management  of  her  interests  in  this  world  below.  Verily 
do  I  believe  that  both  society  and  learning  will  pardon  you, 
though  you  never  talk  oi  piii'siting,  or  exposing,  or  laying  bare, 
or  cutting  up;  or  employ  any  other  term  in  their  behalf 
drawn  from  the  woods  and  forests,  the  chase  and  butchery. 
Donne  fell  into  unhappiness  by  aiming  at  espousals  with  a 
person  of  higher  condition  than  himself. 

Walton.  His  affections  happened  to  alight  upon  one 
who  was  ;  and  in  most  cases  1  would  recommend  it  rather 
than  the  contrary,  for  the  advantage  of  the  children  in  their 
manners  and  in  their  professions. 

Light  and  worthless  men,  I  have  always  observed,  choose 
the  society  of  those  who  are  either  much  above  or  mucli 
below  them  ;  and,  like  dust  and  loose  feathers,  are  rarely  to 
be  found  in  their  places.  Donne  was  none  such  :  he  loved 
his  equals,  and  would  find  them  where  he  could  ;  when  he 
could  not  find  them,  he  could  sit  alone.  This  seems  an  easy 
matter  ;  and  yet,  masters,  there  are  more  people  who  could 
run  along  a  rope  from  yonder  spire  to  this  grass-plot,  than 
can  do  it. 


WILLIAM  PENN  AND  LORD  PETERBOROUGH.      155 

Oldways.  Come,  gentles  :  the  girl  raps  at  the  garden- 
gate.  I  hear  the  ladle  against  the  lock  :  dinner  waits 
for  us. 

XXIV. 
WILLIAM   PENN   AND    LORD    PETERBOROUGH. 

Penn.  Friend  Mordaunt,  thou  hast  been  silent  the  whole 
course  of  our  ride  hither  ;  and  I  should  not  even  now  inter- 
rupt thy  cogitations,  if  the  wood  before  us  were  not  equally 
uncivil. 

Peterborough.     Cannot  we  push  straight  through  it  ? 

Penii.  Verily  the  thing  may  be  done,  after  a  time  :  but 
at  present  we  have  no  direct  business  with  the  Pacific 
Ocean  ;  and  I  doubt  whether  the  woodland  terminates  till 
those  waters  bid  it. 

Peterborough.  And,  in  this  manner,  for  the  sake  of  liberty 
you  run  into  a  prison.  I  would  not  live  in  a  country  that 
does  not  open  to  me  in  all  directions,  and  that  I  could  not 
go  through  when  I  wish. 

Penn.     Where  is  such  a  country  on  earth  ? 

Peterborough.     England  or  France. 

Penn.  Property  lays  those  restrictions  there  which  here 
are  laid  by  Nature.  Now  it  is  right  and  proper  to  bow 
before  each  of  them ;  but  Nature  is  the  more  worthy  of 
obedience,  as  being  the  elder,  the  more  beauteous,  the  more 
powerful,  and  the  more  kindly.  Thou  couldst  no  sooner 
ride  through  thy  neighbour's  park,  unless  he  permitted  it, 
than  through  this  forest  ;  and  even  a  raspberry-bush  in  some 
ten  feet  border  at  Southampton  would  be  an  impediment 
for  a  time  to  thy  free-will. 

Peterborough.  I  should  like  rather  more  elbow-room  than 
this,  having  gone  so  far  for  it. 

Penn.     Here  we  are  stopped  before  we  are  tired  ;  and  in 


156  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

thy  rather  more  elbow-room  we  should  be  stopped  when  we 
are, —  a  mighty  advantage  truly  !  We  run,  thou  sayest,  into 
a  prison,  for  the  sake  of  liberty.  Alas,  my  friend  !  such 
hath  ever  been  the  shortsightedness  of  mortals.  The  liberty 
they  have  pursued  is  indeed  the  very  worst  of  thraldom.  But 
neither  am  I  disposed  to  preach  nor  thou  to  hear  a  preacher. 

Here  at  least  we  are  liberated  from  the  habitudes  and 
injuncUons  of  semi-barbarous  society.  We  may  cultivate, 
we  may  manipulate,  we  may  manufacture,  what  we  choose. 
Industry  and  thought,  and  the  produce  of  both,  are  unre- 
stricted. We  may  open  our  hearts  to  (iod  without  offence 
to  man  :  our  brothers,  we  may  call  our  brothers,  and  with- 
out a  mockery.  If  we  are  studious  of  wisdom,  we  may 
procure  it  at  the  maker's,  and  at  prime  cost ;  if  we  are 
ambitious  of  learning,  we  may  gather  it  fresh  and  sound, 
slowly  indeed,  but  surely  and  richly,  and  without  holding 
out  our  beavers  for  it,  in  a  beaten  and  dusty  road,  to  some 
half-dozen  old  chatterers  and  dotards,  who,  by  their  quarrel- 
someness and  pertinacity,,  testify  that  they  have  little  of  a 
good  quality  to  impnrt  ! 

Peterborough .  All  this  is  very  well  ;  but  we  cannot  en- 
lighten men  if  we  shock  their  prejudices  too  violently. 

Penn.     The  shock  comes  first,  the  light  follows. 

Peterborough.  Most  people  will  run  away  from  both. 
Children  are  afraid  of  being  left  in  the  dark  ;  men  are 
afraid  of  7iot  being  left  in  it. 

Petiti.  Well,  then,  let  them  stay  where  they  are.  We 
will  go  forward,  and  hope  to  find  the  road  of  life  easier  and 
better.  In  which  hope,  if  we  are  disappointed,  we  will  at 
least  contribute  our  share  of  materials  for  mending  it,  and 
of  labour  in  laying  them  where  they  are  most  wanted. 

Prythee  now,  setting  aside  thy  prepossessions,  what 
thinkest  thou,  in  regard  to  appearance  and  aspect,  of  our 
Pennsylvania  .'' 


WILLIAM  PENN  AND  LORD  PETERBOROUGH.      157 

Feterboi-ough.  Even  in  tliis  country,  like  every  one  I 
have  visited,  there  are  some  places  where  I  fancy  I  could  fix 
myself  for  life.  True,  such  a  fancy  lasts  but  for  a  moment : 
the  wonder  is  that  it  should  ever  have  arisen  in  me. 


Pcnn.  God  mend  thee,  madcap!  Wilt  thou  come  and 
live  with  us  ? 

Peterborough.  I  confess  I  should  be  reluctant  to  ex- 
change my  native  country  for  any  other. 

Fenn.  Are  there  many  parts  of  England  thou  hast  never 
seen  ? 

Peterborough.  Several  :  I  was  never  in  Yorkshire  or  Lan- 
cashire, never  in  Monmouthshire  or  Nottinghamshire,  never 
in  Lincolnshire  or  Rutland. 

Penn.  Hast  thou  at  no  time  felt  a  strong  desire  to  visit 
them  ? 

Peterborough.     Not  I,  indeed. 

Penn.  Yet  thy  earnestness  to  come  over  into  America 
was  great  :  so  that  America  had  attractions  for  thee,  in  its 
least  memorable  parts,  powerfuUer  than  England  in  those 
that  are  the  most.  York  and  Lancaster  have  stirring  sounds 
about  them,  particularly  for  minds  easily  set  in  motion  at 
the  fluttering  of  banners.  Is  the  whole  island  of  Jiritain 
thy  native  country,  or  only  a  section  of  it  t  If  all  Britain  is, 
all  Ireland  must  be  too  ;  for  both  are  under  the  same  crown, 
though  not  under  the  same  laws.  Perhaps  not  a  river  nor  a 
channel,  but  a  religion,  makes  the  difference  :  then  I,  among 
millions  more  of  English,  am  not  thy  countryman.  Consider 
a  little,  what  portion  or  parcel  of  soil  is  our  native  land. 

Peterborough.  Just  as  much  of  it  as  our  friends  stand 
upon. 

Penu.  I  would  say  more  :  I  would  say,  just  as  much  as 
supports  our  vanity  in  our  shire. 


15S  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Peterborough.  I  confess,  the  sort  of  patriotism  which 
attaches  most  men  to  their  country  is  neither  a  wiser 
nor  a  better  feeling  than  the  feeUng  of  recluses  and  cats. 
Scourges  and  starvation  do  not  cure  them  of  their  stupid 
love  for  localities.  Mine  is  different  :  1  like  to  see  the 
desperate  rides  I  have  taken  in  the  forest,  and  the  places 
where  nobody  dared  follow  me.  I  like  to  feel  and  to  make 
felt  my  superiority,  not  over  tradespeople  and  farmers  in 
their  dull  debates,  but  over  lords  and  archbishops,  over 
chancellors  and  kings.  I  would  no  more  live  where  they 
are  not,  than  have  a  mansion-house  without  a  stable,  or  a 
paddock  without  a  leaping-bar. 

Pcnn.  Superiority  in  wealth  is  communicated  to  many 
and  partaken  by  thousands,  and  therefore  men  pardon  it ; 
while  superiority  of  rank  is  invidious,  and  the  right  to  it  is 
questioned  in  most  instances.  I  would  not  for  the  world 
raise  so  many  evil  passions  every  time  I  walk  in  the  street. 

Peterborough.  It  would  amuse  me.  I  care  not  how  much 
people  hate  me,  nor  how  many,  provided  their  hatred  feed 
upon  itself  without  a  blow  at  me,  or  privation  or  hindrance. 
Great  dogs  fondle  little  dogs  ;  but  little  dogs  hate  them 
mortally,  and  lift  up  their  ears  and  tails  and  spinal  hairs  to 
make  themselves  as  high.  Some  people  are  unhappy  unless 
they  can  display  their  superiority  ;  others  are  satisfied  with 
a  consciousness  of  it.  The  latter  are  incontestably  the 
better  ;  the  former  are  infinitely  the  more  numerous,  and, 
I  will  venture  to  say,  the  more  useful  :  their  vanity,  call  it 
nothing  else,  sets  in  motion  all  the  activity  of  less  men,  and 
nearly  all  of  greater. 

Pcnu.  Prove  this  activity  to  be  beneficial,  prove  it  only 
to  be  neutral,  and  we  meet  almost  near  enough  for  discus- 
sion. Not  quite  ;  for  vanity,  which  is  called  idle,  is  never 
inoperative  :  when  it  cannot  by  its  position  ramble  far  afield, 
it   chokes   the    plant   that    nurtures  it.     Consciousness   of 


WILLIAM  PENN  AND  LORD  PETERBOROUGH.     159 

superiority,  kept  at  home  and  quiet,  is  the  nurse  of  innocent 
meditations  and  of  sound  content. 

Canst  not  thou  feel  and  exhibit  tlie  same  superiority  at 
any  distance  ? 

Peterborough.  I  cannot  make  than  feel  it  nor  see  it. 
What  is  it  t(j  be  any  thin^,  unless  we  enjoy  the  faculty  of 
impressing"  our  image  at  full  length  on  the  breast  of  others, 
and  strongly  too  and  deeply  and  (when  we  wish  it)  painfully  ; 
but  mostly  on  those  who,  because  their  rank  in  court-calen- 
dars is  the  same  or  higher,  imagine  they  are  like  me,  equal 
to  me,  over  me  ?  I  thank  God  that  there  are  kings  and 
princes  :  remove  them,  and  you  may  leave  me  alone  with 
swine  and  sheep. 

Penn.  1  would  not  draw  thee  aside  from  bad  company 
into  worse  :  if  indeed  that  may  reasonably  be  called  so, 
which  allows  thee  greater  room  and  more  leisure  for  reflec- 
tion, and  which  imparts  to  thee  purer  innocence  and  en- 
gages thee  in  usefuUer  occupations.  That  such  is  the  case 
is  evident.  The  poets,  to  whom  thou  often  appealest  for 
sound  philosophy  and  right  feeling,  never  lead  shepherds 
into  courts,  but  often  lead  the  great  among  shepherds.  If 
it  were  allowable  for  me  to  disdain  or  despise  even  the 
wickedest  and  vilest  of  God's  creatures,  in  which  condition 
a  king  peradventure  as  easily  as  any  other  may  be,  I  think 
I  could,  without  much  perplexity  or  inquiry,  find  something 
in  the  multitude  of  his  blessings  quite  as  reasonable  and 
proper  to  thank  him  for.  With  all  thy  contemptuousness, 
thou  placest  thy  fortune  and  the  means  of  thy  advancement 
in  the  hands  of  such  persons  ;   and  they  may  ruin  thee. 

Peterboroi/gh.  You  place  your  money  in  the  hands  of 
bankers ;  and  they  may  ruin  you.  The  difference  is,  your 
ruiner  may  gain  a  good  deal  by  it,  and  may  run  off  ;  mine 
has  no  such  temptation,  and  should  not  run  far.  All  titulars 
else  must  be  produced  by  others,  —  a  knight  by  a  knight,  a 


160  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

peer  by  a  king, —  while  a  gentleman  is  self-existent.  Our 
country  exhibits  in  every  part  of  it  what  none  in  the  world 
beside  can  do, —  men  at  once  of  elegant  manners,  ripe 
and  sound  learning,  unostentatious  honour,  unprofessional 
courage,  confiding  hospitality,  courteous  independence.  If 
a  Frenchman  saw,  as  he  might  do  any  week  in  the  winter,  a 
hundred  or  two  of  our  fox-hunters  in  velvet  caps  and  scarlet 
coats,  he  would  imagine  he  saw  only  a  company  of  the  rich 
and  idle. 

Fctm.  lie  would  think  rightly.  Such  gentlemen  ought, 
willing  or  loath,  to  serve  an  apprenticeship  of  seven  years 
to  a  rat-catcher. 

Peterborough.  It  would  be  no  unwise  thing  to  teach,  if  not 
gentlemen,  at  least  the  poor,  in  what  manner  to  catch  and 
exterminate  every  kind  of  noxious  animal.  In  our  island  it 
is  not  enough  to  have  exterminated  the  wolves  :  we  are 
liable  to  the  censure  of  idleness  and  ill  husbandry  while  an 
otter,  a  weasel,  a  rat,  or  a  snake  is  upon  it.  Zoologists  may 
affirm  that  these  and  other  vermin  were  created  for  some 
peculiar  use.  Voracious  and  venomous  animals  may  be 
highly  respectable  in  their  own  society  ;  and  whenever  it  is 
proved  that  their  service  to  the  community  is  greater  than 
the  disadvantage,  I  will  propose  in  parliament  to  import 
them  again  duty-free. 

Perm.  Rats  come  among  us  with  almost  every  vessel  ; 
and  nothing  is  easier  than  to  entice  them  to  a  particular 
spot,  either  for  the  purpose  of  conversation  or  destruction, 
as  may  seem  fittest. 

J'eterhoroug/i.  Release  me  from  the  traps,  and  permit  me 
to  follow  the  hounds  again  ;  but  previously  to  remark  that 
probably  a  third  of  these  fox-hunters  is  composed  of  well- 
educated  men.  Joining  in  the  ainusements  of  others  is,  in 
our  social  state,  the  next  thing  to  sympathy  in  their  dis- 
tresses ;   and  even  the  slenderest  bond  that  holds  society 


WILLIAM  VENN  AND  LORD  ri-rfERBOKOUGIL      161 

lugcther  should  rather  be  strengthened  than  snapped.  I 
feel  no  horror  at  seeing  the  young  clergyman  in  the  field,  by 
the  side  of  his  patron  the  squire  and  his  parishioner  the 
yeoman.  Interests,  falsely  calculated,  would  keep  men  and 
classes  separate,  if  amusements  and  recreations  did  ncjt  in- 
sensibly bring  them  close.  If  conviviality  (which  by  ytjur 
leave  I  call  a  virtue)  is  promoted  by  fox-hunting,  I  will 
drink  to  its  success,  whatever  word  in  the  formulary  may 
follow  or  go  before  it.  Nations  have  fallen  by  wanting,  not 
unanimity  in  the  hour  of  danger,  so  much  as  union  in  the 
hours  preceding  it.  Our  national  feelings  are  healthy  and 
strong  by  the  closeness  of  their  intertexture.  What  touches 
one  rank  is  felt  by  another  :  it  sounds  on  the  rim  of  the 
glass,  the  hall  rings  with  it,  and  it  is  well  (you  will  say)  if 
the  drum  and  the  trumpet  do  not  catch  it.  Feelings  are 
more  easily  communicated  among  us  than  manners.  Every 
one  disdains  to  imitate  another  :  a  grace  is  a  peculiarity. 
Yet  in  a  ride  no  longer  than  what  we  have  been  taking,  how 
many  objects  excite  our  interest!  By  how  many  old  man- 
sion-houses should  we  have  passed,  within  which  there  are 
lodged  those  virtues  that  constitute  the  power,  stability,  and 
dignity  of  a  people  !  We  never  see  a  flight  of  rooks  or 
wood-pigeons  without  the  certainty  that  in  a  few  minutes 
they  will  alight  on  some  grove  where  a  brave  man  has  been 
at  his  walk,  or  a  wise  man  at  his  meditations.  North 
America  may  one  day  be  very  rich  and  pcnverful  ;  she  can- 
not be  otherwise  :  but  she  never  will  gratify  the  imagination 
as  Europe  does.  Her  history  will  interest  her  inhabitants  ; 
but  there  never  will  be  another  page  in  it  so  interesting  as 
that  which  you  yourself  have  left  open  for  unadorned  and 
simple  narrative.  The  poet,  the  painter,  the  statuary,  will 
awaken  no  enthusiasm  in  it  ;  not  a  ballad  can  be  written  on 
a  bale  of  goods  :  and  not  only  no  artist,  but  no  gentleman,  is 
it  likely  that  America  v.ill  produce  in  many  generations. 


162  IMA  GIN  A  R  Y   CON  VERS  A  TIONS. 

J'en/i.  She  does  not  feel  the  need  of  them  :  she  can  do 
without  'em. 

J'eterborough.  Those  who  have  corn  may  not  care  for 
roses  ;  and  those  who  have  dog-roses  may  not  care  for 
double  ones.     I  have  a  buttonhole  that  wants  a  posy. 

Fenn.  I  do  not  conceal  from  thee  my  opinion  of  thy 
abilities,  which  probably  is  not  a  more  favourable  one  than 
thy  own  ;  since,  however,  the  vices  that  accompany  them 
rather  than  the  virtues,  thy  ambition  rather  than  thy  hon- 
esty, thy  violence  rather  than  thy  prudence,  may  push  thee 
forward  to  the  first  station,  it  is  my  duty  as  a  friend  to  fore- 
warn thee  that  such  promotion  will  render  thee,  and  prob- 
ably thy  countrymen,  less  happy. 

Peterborough.  I  will  not  permit  any  thing  to  produce  that 
effect  on  me  :  the  moment  it  begins  the  operation,  I  resign 
it.  Happiness  would  overHow  my  heart,  to  see  reduced  to 
the  condition  of  my  lackeys  the  proudest  of  our  priesthood 
and  our  peerage.  I  should  only  have  to  regret  that,  my 
condition  being  equal  to  theirs,  I  could  not  so  much  enjoy 
their  humiliation,  as  if  my  family  and  my  connections  were 
inferior.  When  I  discover  men  of  high  birth  condescending 
to  perform  the  petty  tricks  of  party  for  the  sake  of  obtaining 
a  favour  at  court,  1  wish  it  were  possible,  by  the  usages  of 
our  country  and  the  feelings  of  Englishmen,  to  elevate  to 
the  rank  of  prime  minister  some  wrangling  barrister,  some 
impudent  buffon,  some  lampooner  from  the  cockpit,  some 
zany  from  the  theatre,  that  their  backs  might  serve  for  his 
footstool. 

rciin.  Was  there  ever  in  a  Christian  land  a  wish  more 
irrational   or   more   impious  ! 

I'eterborough.  'i'he  very  kind  of  wish  that  we  oftenest 
see  accomplished. 

Penn.     Never  wilt  thou  see  this. 

Peterborough.     Be  not  over  certain. 


WILLIAM  FENN  AND  LORD  PETERBOROUGH.      163 

Penn.  Charles,  whose  pleasures  were  low  and  vulgar, 
whose  parliaments  were  corrupt  and  traitorous,  chose  min- 
isters of  some  authority.  The  mob  itself,  that  is  amused 
by  dancing  dogs,  is  loath  to  be  ridden  by  them.  The  hand 
that  writeth  songs  on  our  street  walls  ought  never  to  sub- 
scribe to  the  signature  of  our  kings. 

Peterborough.     I  speak  of  Parliament. 

Petm.  Thou  speakest  then  worse  still.  A  king  wears  its 
livery  and  eats  its  bread.  Without  a  parliament  he  is  but  as 
the  slough  of  a  snake,  hanging  in  a  hedge  :  it  retains  the  form 
and  colours,  but  it  wants  the  force  of  the  creature  ;  it  waves 
idly  in  the  wind,  and  is' fit  only  to  frighten  wrens  and  mice. 

Thy  opinions  are  aristocratical  :  yet  never  did  I  behold  a 
man  who  despised  the  body  and  members  of  the  aristocracy 
more  haughtily  and  scornfully  than  thou  dost. 

Peterboroiigh.  Few  have  had  better  opportunities  of 
knowing  its  composition. 

Peim.     Those  who  are  older  must  have  had  better. 

Peterborough.  Say  rather,  may  have  had  more :  yet  I 
have  omitted  few,  unless  the  lady's  choice  lay  below  the 
chaplain  ;  for  I  was  always  select  in  my  rivals.  How  many 
do  you  imagine  of  our  nobility  are  not  bastards,  or  sons  or 
grandsons  of  bastards  ?  If  you  believe  there  are  a  few,  I  will 
send  the  titheman  into  the  enclosure,  and  he  shall  levy  his 
proportion  in  spite  of  you. 

Aristocracy  is  not  contemptible  as  a  system  of  govern- 
ment ;  in  fact,  it  is  the  only  one  a  true  gentleman  can 
acquiesce  in.  Give  me  any  thing  rather  than  the  caldron, 
eternally  bubbling  and  hissing,  in  which  the  scum  of  the 
sugar-baker  has  nought  at  the  bottom  of  it  but  the  poison  of 
the  lawyer's  tongue  and  the  bones  of  the  poor  reptiles  he 
hath  starved. 

Enough  for  aristocracy  ;  now  for  aristocrats.  Let  me 
hold  my  hat  before  my  face  and  look  demurely  while  I  say, 


164  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

and  apply  the  saying  to  myself,  that,  to  him  whose  survey 
is  from  any  great  elevation,  all  men  below  are  of  an  equal 
size.  Aristocrats  and  democrats,  kings  and  scullions,  pre- 
sent one  form,  one  stature,  one  colour,  and  one  gait.  I  see 
but  two  classes  of  men,  —  those  whose  names  are  immortal, 
and  those  whose  names  are  perishable.  Of  the  immortal 
there  is  but  one  body  ;  all  in  it  are  so  high  as  to  seem  on 
an  equality,  inasmuch  as  immortality  admits  of  no  degree  : 
of  the  perishable  there  are  several  sets  and  classes,  —  kings 
and  chamberlains,  trumpeters  and  heralds,  take  up  half  their 
time  in  cutting  them  out  and  sticking  them  on  blank  paper. 
If  I  by  fighting  or  writing  could  throw  myself  forward  and 
gain  futurity,  I  should  think  myself  as  much  superior  to  our 
sovereign  lord  the  king,  as  our  sovereign  lord  the  king  is  to 
any  bell-wether  in  his  park  at  Windsor. 

Fenri.  Strange  that  men  should  toil  for  earthly  glory, 
when  the  only  difference  between  the  lowest  and  highest  is 
comprised  in  two  letters  :  the  one  ///  a  thousand,  and  the 
one  of  a  thousand,  —  an  atom  in  the  midst  of  atoms,  take 

which  thou  wilt  ! 

*  *  *  * 

Peterborough.  There  are  two  reasons,  however,  why  I 
never  could  become  a  member  of  your  society :  first,  I  never 
should  be  cjuiet  or  good  enough  ;  secondly,  supposing  me 
to  have  acquired  all  the  tranquillity  and  virtue  requisite,  my 
propensity  toward  the  theatre  and  its  fair  actresses  would 
seduce  me. 

Penn.  Thy  language  is  light  and  inconsequent.  Thou 
couldst  not  indeed  be  quiet  and  good  enough  for  any 
rational  and  sedate  society,  and  oughtest  not  even  to  dis- 
course with  any  confidence  on  virtue,  unless  thou  hadst 
first  subdued  such  an  idle  fantasy  as  that  of  mockery,  and 
such  vile  affections  as  those  for  paint  and  fiddles,  and  wind- 
instruments  and  female  ones. 


WILLIAM  PENN  AND  LORD  PETERBOROUGH.      1G5 

'  Peterborough.  They  who  are  to  live  in  the  world  must 
see  what  the  world  is  composed  of,  —  its  better  and  its 
worse. 

Peim.  No  doubt,  he  who  is  to  live  in  a  street  must  see 
the  cleaner  parts  of  the  pavement  and  the  dirtier  ;  but  must 
he  put  his  foot  into  them  equally,  or,  according  to  thy 
system,  step  over  the  plain  flagstone  to  splash  into  the  filth? 

Peterborough.  Philosophers  tell  us  our  passions  and  fol- 
lies should  be  displayed  to  us  together  with  their  evil  con- 
sequences, that  we  may  regulate  and  control  them. 

Peiin.  In  my  opinion,  who  am  no  philosopher,  we  should 
grow  as  little  familiar  even  with  their  faces  as  may  be.  We 
ought  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  such  as  are  exhibited  on 
the  tragic  stage ;  if  they  really  exist,  they  are  placed  by 
Providence  out  of  our  range  :  they  cannot  hurt  us  unless  we 
run  after  them  on  purpose.  Then  do  we  want  strange 
characters  of  less  dimensions,  such  as  can  come  under  our 
doorway  and  affect  us  at  home  ?  We  meet  them  everywhere  ; 
nay,  we  cannot  help  it. 

Peterborough.  Elevated  sentiment  is  found  in  tragedy; 
elegant  reproof  in  comedy. 

Penn.  Comedy  is  the  aliment  of  childish  malice  ;  tragedy 
of  malice  full-grown.  Comedy  has  made  many  fools,  and 
tragedy  many  criminals.  Show  me  one  man  who  hath  been 
the  wiser  or  the  better  for  either,  and  I  will  show  you 
twenty  who  have  been  made  rogues  and  coxcombs  by  aping 
the  only  models  of  fashion  they  can  find  admittance  to,  and 
as  many  more  who  have  grown  indifferent  and  hard-hearted, 
and  whatever  else  is  reprehensible  in  higher  life. 

Who,  being  thoughtless,  ignorant,  self-sufficient,  would 
not  be  moody,  vindictive,  unforgiving,  if  great  monarchs 
set  the  example  before  him  ?  and  who  fears  those  chastise- 
ments at  the  end,  which  it  would  be  a  thousand  times  more 
difficult  for  him  to  run  into  than  to  avoid?     There  is  only 


166  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

one  thing  in  either  kind  of  scenic  representation  which  is 
sure  enough  never  to  hit  him — -the  moral. 

If,  however,  thou  visitest  the  theatre  for  reflection,  thou 
art  the  first  that  ever  went  there  for  it,  although  not  the  first 
that  found  it  there.  Reflection,  from  whatever  quarry  ex- 
tracted, is  the  foundation  of  solid  pleasures,  which  founda- 
tion, we  think,  cannot  be  laid  too  early  in  the  season. 

Peterborough.  Solid  pleasures,  like  other  solid  things, 
grow  heavy  and  tiresome  :  I  would  rather  have  three  or 
four  lighter,  of  half  the  value,  readily  taken  up,  and  as 
readily  laid  down  again. 

Fenn.  The  time  will  come,  young  man,  when  thou  wilt 
reason  better,  and  wilt  detest  that  wit,  the  rivet  of  sad  con- 
sistency. Thou  hast  spoken,  as  thou  fanciest,  a  smart  and 
lively  thing  ;  and,  because  thou  hast  spoken  it,  thou  wilt 
tie  thy  body  and  soul  to  it. 

Peterborough.  Possibly  the  time  may  come,  but  it  lies 
beyond  my  calculation,  when  the  frame  of  my  mind  may  be 
better  adapted  to  those  cubic  joys  you  were  proposing  for  me  ; 
but  I  have  observed  that  all  who  in  their  youthful  days  are 
the  well-strapped,  even-paced  porters  of  them  have  been  the 
first  broken  down  by  calamity  or  infirmity. 

Penn.  The  greater  sign  of  infirmity,  the  greater  of  calam- 
ity, is  there  apparent,  where  the  intertexture  of  pleasures 
and  duties  seems  intractable. 

Peterborough.  If  the  theatre  were  as  hostile  and  rancourous 
against  the  church  as  the  church  in  some  countries  is  against 
the  theatre,  we  should  call  it  very  immoral ;  not  because  it 
had  less  justice  on  its  side,  but  because  it  had  more  viru- 
lence. Splendour  and  processions  and  declamation  and 
rodomontade  are  high  delights  to  the  multitude.  Accom- 
panied by  lofty  and  generous  sentiments,  they  do  good  ; 
accompanied  by  merriment  and  amusement,  they  do  more 
good  still  :  for  lofty  and  generous  sentiments  are  so  ill-fitted 


EPICTETUS  AND  SENECA.  167 

to  the  heads  and  hearts  of  most  men,  that  they  fall  off  in 
getting  through  the  crowd  in  the  lobby  ;  but  the  amusement 
and  merriment  go  to  bed  with  man  and  wife,  and  some- 
thing of  them  is  left  for  the  children  the  next  morning  at 
lireakfast.  I  have  no  greater  objection  to  parade  and  state- 
liness  in  that  theatre  where  the  actors  have  been  educated 
at  the  university,  than  in  that  where  one  can  more  easily  be 
admitted  behind  the  scenes  :  what  I  want  is  a  little  good- 
nature and  good-manners,  and  that  God  should  be  thought 
as  tolerant  as  my  lord  chamberlain. 

The  worst  objection  I  myself  could  ever  find  against  the 
theatre  is,  that  I  lose  in  it  my  original  idea  of  such  men  as 
Casar  and  Coriolanus,  and,  where  the  loss  affects  me  more 
deeply,  of  Juliet  and  Desdemona.  Alexander  was  a  fool  to 
wish  for  a  second  world  to  conquer  :  but  no  man  is  a  fool 
who  wishes  for  the  enjoyment  of  two  ;  the  real  and  ideal  : 
nor  is  it  any  thing  short  of  a  misfortune,  I  had  almost  said 
of  a  calamity,  to  confound  them.  This  is  done  by  the  stage: 
it  is  likewise  done  by  engravings  in  books,  which  have  a 
great  effect  in  weakening  the  imagination,  and  are  service- 
able only  to  those  who  have  none,  and  who  read  negligently 
and  idly. 

XXV. 

EPICTETUS    AND   SENECA. 

Seneca.  Epictetus,  I  desired  your  master,  Epaphroditus, 
to  send  you  hither,  having  been  much  pleased  with  his 
report  of  your  conduct,  and  much  surprised  at  the  ingenuity 
of  your  writings. 

Epictetus.     Then  I  am  afraid,  my  friend  — 
Seneca.     My  friend /  are  these    the    expressions -^  Well, 
let  it  pass.     Philosophers  must  bear  bravely.     The  people 
expect  it. 


168  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Epidetus.  Are  philosophers,  then,  only  philosophers  for 
the  people ;  and,  instead  of  instructing  them,  must  they 
play  tricks  before  them  ?  Give  me  rather  the  gravity  of 
dancing  dogs.  Their  motions  are  for  the  rabble ;  their 
reverential  eyes  and  pendant  paws  are  under  the  pressure 
of  awe  at  a  master  ;  but  they  are  dogs,  and  not  below  their 
destinies. 

Seneca.  Epictetus !  I  will  give  you  three  talents  to  let  me 
take  that  sentiment  for  my  own. 

Epictetus.  I  would  give  thee  twenty,  if  I  had  them,  to 
make  it  thine. 

Seneca.  You  mean,  by  lending  to  it  the  graces  of  my 
language  ? 

Epictetus.  1  mean,  by  lending  it  to  thy  conduct.  And 
now  let  me  console  and  comfort  thee,  under  the  calamity  I 
brought  on  thee  by  calling  thee  my  friend.  If  thou  art  not 
my  friend,  why  send  for  me  ?  Enemy  I  can  have  none  : 
being  a  slave,  Fortune  has  now  done  with  me. 

Seneca.  Continue,  then,  your  former  observations.  What 
were  you  saying  ? 

Epictetus.     That  which  thou  interruptedst. 

Seneca.     What  was  it.' 

Epictetus.  I  should  have  remarked  that,  if  thou  foundest 
ingenuity  in  my  writings,  thou  must  have  discovered  in  them 
some  deviation  from  the  plain,  homely  truths  of  Zeno  and 
Cleanthes. 

Seneca.     We  all  swerve  a  little  from  them. 

Epictetus.     In  practice  too? 

Seneca.     Yes,  even  in  practice,  I  am  afraid. 

Epictetus.     Often  ? 

Seneca.     Too  often. 

Epictetus.  Strange !  I  have  been  attentive,  and  yet  have 
remarked  but  one  difference  among  you  great  personages  at 
Rome. 


EPICTETUS  AND  SENECA.  169 

Seneca.     What  difference  fell  under  your  observation  ? 

Epidetus.  Crates  and  Zeno  and  Cleanthes  taught  us  that 
our  desires  were  to  be  subdued  by  philosophy  alone.  In 
this  city,  their  acute  and  inventive  scholars  take  us  aside, 
and  show  us  that  there  is  not  only  one  way,  but  two. 

Seneca.     Two  ways  ? 

Epictctus.  They  whisper  in  our  ear,  "  These  two  ways 
are  philosophy  and  enjoyment  :  the  wiser  man  will  take  the 
readier,  or,  not  finding  it,  the  alternative."     Thou  reddenest. 

Sctieca.     Monstrous  degeneracy. 

Epidetus.  What  magnificent  rings  !  I  did  not  notice 
them  until  thou  liftedst  up  thy  hands  to  heaven,  in  detesta- 
tion of  such  effeminacy  and  impudence. 

Seneca.  The  rings  are  not  amiss ;  my  rank  rivets  them 
upon  my  fingers  :  I  am  forced  to  wear  them.  Our  emperor 
gave  me  one,  Epaphroditus  another,  Tigellinus  the  third. 
I  cannot  lay  them  aside  a  single  day,  for  fear  of  offending 
the  gods,  and  those  whom  they  love  the  most  worthily. 

Epiddus.  Although  they  make  thee  stretch  out  thy  fingers, 
like  the  arms  and  legs  of  one  of  us  slaves  upon  a  cross. 

Seneca.     Oh  horrible  !     Find  some  other  resemblance. 

Epidetus.     The  extremities  of  a  fig-leaf. 

Seneca.     Ignoble ! 

Epidetus.     The  claws  of  a  toad,  trodden  on  or  stoned. 

Seneca.  You  have  great  need,  Epictetus,  of  an  instructor 
in  eloquence  and  "rhetoric  :  you  want  topics  and  tropes  and 
figures. 

Epictctus.  I  have  no  room  for  them.  They  make  such 
a  buzz  in  the  house,  a  man's  own  wife  cannot  understand 
what  he  says  to  her. 

SeJieca.  Let  us  reason  a  little  upon  style.  I  would  set  you 
right,  and  remove  from  before  you  the  prejudices  of  a 
somewhat  rustic  education.  We  may  adorn  the  simplicity 
of  the  wisest. 


170  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Epictetus.  Thou  canst  not  adorn  simplicity.  What  is 
naked  or  defective  is  susceptible  of  decoration  ;  what  is 
decorated  is  simplicity  no  longer.  Thou  mayst  give  another 
thing  in  exchange  for  it  ;  but  if  thou  wert- master  of  it,  thou 
wouldst  preserve  it  inviolate.  It  is  no  wonder  that  we 
mortals,  little  able  as  we  are  to  see  truth,  should  be  less 
able  to  express  it. 

Seneca.     You  have  formed  at  present  no  idea  of  style. 

Epictetus.  I  never  think  about  it.  First,  I  consider 
whether  what  I  am  about  to  say  is  true  ;  then  whether  1 
can  say  it  with  brevity,  in  such  a  manner  as  that  others 
shall  see  it  as  clearly  as  I  do  in  the  light  of  truth  ;  for,  if  they 
survey  it  as  an  ingenuity,  my  desire  is  ungratified,  my  duty 
unfulfilled.  I  go  not  with  those  who  dance  round  the  image 
of  Truth,  less  out  of  honour  to  her  than  to  display  their 
agility  and  address. 

Sc7icca.  We  must  attract  the  attention  of  readers  by 
novelty  and  force  and  grandeur  of  expression. 

Epictetus.  We  must.  Nothing  is  so  grand  as  truth,  noth- 
ing so  forcible,  nothing  so  novel. 

Seneca.  Sonorous  sentences  are  wanted  to  awaken  the 
lethargy  of  indolence. 

Epictetus.  Awaken  it  to  what.'  Here  lies  the  question  ; 
and  a  weighty  one  it  is.  If  thou  awakenest  men  when  they 
can  see  nothing  and  do  no  work,  it  is  better  to  let  them 
rest:  but  will  not  they,  thinkest  thou,  look  up  at  a  rainbow, 
unless  they  are  called  to  it  by  a  clap  of  thunder .' 

Seneca.  Your  early  youth,  Epictetus,  has  been,  I  will  not 
say  neglected,  but  cultivated  with  rude  instruments  and  un- 
skilful hands. 

Epictetus.  I  thank  God  for  it.  Those  rude  instruments 
have  left  the  turf  lying  yet  toward  the  sun  ;  and  those 
unskilful  hands  have  plucked  out  the  docks. 

Seneca.     We  hope  and  believe  that  we   have  attained  a 


EPICTETUS  AND  SENECA.  171 

vein  of  eloquence,  brighter  and  more  varied  than  has  been 
hitherto  laid  open  to  the  world. 

Epictetiis.     Than  any  in  the  Greek? 

Seneca.     We  trust  so. 

Epictetiis.     Than  your  Cicero's.'' 

Scficca.  If  the  declaration  may  be  made  without  an 
offence  to  modesty.  Surely,  you  cannot  estimate  or  value 
the  eloquence  of  that  noble  pleader .-" 

Epictetiis.  Imperfectly,  not  l^eing  born  in  Italy  ;  and  the 
noble  pleader  is  a  much  less  man  with  me  than  the  noble 
philosopher.  I  regret  that,  having  farms  and  villas,  he 
would  not  keep  his  distance  from  the  pumping  up  of  foul 
words  against  thieves,  cutthroats,  and  other  rogues  ;  .  and 
that  he  lied,  sweated,  and  thumped  his  head  and  thighs,  in 
behalf  of  those  who  were  no  better. 

Seneca.  Senators  must  have  clients,  and  must  protect 
them. 

Epictetiis.     Innocent  or  guilty  ? 

Seneca.     Doubtless. 

Epictetiis.  If  it  becomes  a  philosopher  to  regret  at  all, 
and  if  I  regret  what  is  and  might  not  be,  I  may  regret  more 
what  both  is  and  must  be.  However,  it  is  an  amiable  thing:, 
and  no  small  merit  in  the  wealthy,  even  to  trifle  and  play  at 
their  leisure  hours  with  philosophy.  It  cannot  be  expected 
that  such  a  personage  should  espouse  her,  or  should  recom- 
mend her  as  an  inseparable  mate  to  his  heir. 

Seneca.      I  would. 

Epictetiis.  Yes,  Seneca,  but  thou  hast  no  son  to  make 
the  match  for;  and  thy  recommendation,  I  suspect,  would 
be  given  him  before  he  could  consummate  the  marriage. 
Every  man  wishes  his  sons  to  be  philosophers  while  they 
are  young ;  but  takes  especial  care,  as  they  grow  older,  to 
teach  them  its  insufficiency  and  unfitness  for  their  inter- 
course with  mankind.     The  paternal  voice  says,  "You  must 


172  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

not  be  particular ;  you  are  about  to  have  a  profession  to  live 
by  :  follow  those  who  have  thriven  the  best  in  it."  Now, 
among  these,  whatever  be  the  profession,  canst  thou  point 
out  to  me  one  single  philosopher  ? 

Seneca.  Not  just  now.  Nor,  upon  reflection,  do  I  think 
it  feasible. 

Epictetus.  Thou  indeed  mayest  live  much  to  thy  ease 
and  satisfaction  with  philosophy,  having  (they  say)  two 
thousand  talents. 

Seneca.  And  a  trifle  to  spare  —  pressed  upon  me  by  that 
god-like  youth,  my  pupil  Nero. 

Epictetus.  Seneca  !  where  God  hath  placed  a  mine  he 
hath  placed  the  materials  of  an  earthquake. 

Seneca.  A  true  philosopher  is  beyond  the  reach  of  For- 
tune. 

Epictetus.  The  false  one  thinks  himself  so.  Fortune 
cares  little  about  philosophers  ;  but  she  remembers  where 
she  hath  set  a  rich  man,  and  she  laughs  to  see  the  Destinies 
at  his  door. 

XXVI. 

LUCULLUS    AND   C^SAR. 

LucuUus.  You  are  surveying  the  little  lake  beside  us.  It 
contains  no  fish,  birds  never  alight  on  it,  the  water  is  ex- 
tremely pure  and  cold  ;  the  walk  round  is  pleasant,  not  only 
because  there  is  always  a  gentle  breeze  from  it,  but  because 
the  turf  is  fine,  and  the  surface  of  the  mountain  on  this 
summit  is  perfectly  on  a  level  to  a  great  extent  in  length,  ■ — 
not  a  trifling  advantage  to  me,  who  walk  often  and  am  weak. 
I  have  no  alley,  no  garden,  no  inclosure  ;  the  park  is  in  the 
vale  below,  where  a  brook  supplies  the  ponds,  and  where 
my  servants  are  lodged ;  for  here  I  have  only  twelve  in 
attendance. 


LUCULLUS  AND    CyESAR.  173 

CcBsar.     What  is  that  so  white,  toward  the  Adriatic? 

Lucullus.  The  Adriatic  itself.  Turn  round  and  you  may 
descry  the  Tuscan  Sea.  Our  situation  is  reported  to  be 
among  the  highest  of  the  Apennines.  —  Marcipor  has  made 
the  sign  to  me  that  dinner  is  ready.      Pass  this  way. 

Ccesar.  What  a  Hbrary  is  here  !  Ah,  Marcus  TuUius  !  I 
salute  thy  image.  Why  frownest  thou  upon  me,  —  collecting 
the  consular  robe,  and  uplifting  the  right  arm,  as  when 
Rome  stood  firm  again,  and  Catiline  fled  before  thee.'' 

Lucullus.  Just  so  ;  such  was  the  action  the  statuary 
chose,  as  adding  a  new  endearment  to  the  memory  of  my 
absent  friend. 

CiEsar.  Sylla,  who  honoured  you  above  all  men,  is  not 
here. 

LtuuUus.  I  have  his  Commentaries :  he  inscribed  them, 
as  you  know,  to  me.  Something  even  of  our  benefactors 
may  be  forgotten,  and  gratitude  be  unreproved. 

Ccesar.  The  impression  on  that  couch,  and  the  two  fresh 
honeysuckles  in  the  leaves  of  those  two  books,  would  show, 
even  to  a  stranger,  that  this  room  is  peculiarly  the  mas- 
ter's.    Are  they  sacred? 

Lucullus.     To  me  and  Caesar. 

Ccesar.     I  would  have  asked  permission  — 

Lucullus.  Caius  Julius,  you  have  nothing  to  ask  of 
Polybius  and  Thucydides  ;  nor  of  Xenophon,  the  next  to 
them  on  the  table. 

Ccesar.  Thucydides  !  the  most  generous,  the  most  un- 
prejudiced, the  most  sagacious,  of  historians.  Now,  Lucul- 
lus, you  whose  judgment  in  style  is  more  accurate  than  any 
other  Roman's,  do  tell  me  whether  a  commander,  desirous 
of  writing  his  Cotnmetitaries,  could  take  to  himself  a  more 
perfect  model  than  Thucydides  ? 

Lucullus.  Nothing  is  more  perfect,  nor  ever  will  be  :  the 
scholar  of  Pericles,  the  master  of  Demosthenes,  the  equal  of 


174  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

the  one  in  military  science,  and  of  the  other  not  the  inferior 
in  civil  and  forensic  ;  the  calm  dispassionate  judge  of  the 
general  by  whom  he  was  defeated,  his  defender,  his  en- 
comiast. To  talk  of  such  men  is  conducive  not  only  to 
virtue  but  to  health. 

Ccesar.  We  have  no  writer  who  could  keep  up  long 
together  his  severity  and  strength.  I  would  follow  him  ; 
but  I  shall  be  contented  with  my  genius,  if  (Thucydides  in 
sight)  I  come  many  paces  behind,  and  attain  by  study  and 
attention  the  graceful  and  secure  mediocrity  of  Xenophon. 


LucuUhs.  This  other  is  my  dining-room.  You  expect 
the  dishes. 

Ccesar.     1  misunderstood,  —  I  fancied  — 

Luadliis.  Repose  yourself,  and  touch  with  the  ebony 
wand,  beside  you,  the  sphynx  on  either  of  those  obelisks, 
right  or  left. 

Ccesar.      Let  me  look  at  them  first. 

Lucullus.  The  contrivance  was  intended  for  one  person, 
or  two  at  most,  desirous  of  privacy  and  quiet.  The  blocks 
of  jasper  in  my  pair,  and  of  porphyry  in  yours,  easily  yield 
in  their  grooves,  each  forming  one  partition.  There  are 
four,  containing  four  platforms.  The  lower  holds  four 
dishes,  such  as  sucking  forest-boars,  venison,  hares,  tunnies, 
sturgeons,  which  you  will  find  within ;  the  upper  three, 
eight  each,  but  diminutive.  The  confectionery  is  brought 
separately,  for  the  steam  would  spoil  it,  if  any  should  escape. 
The  melons  are  in  the  snow,  thirty  feet  under  us  :  they  came 
early  this  morning  from  a  place  in  the  vicinity  of  Luni,  so  that 
I  hope  they  may  be  crisp,  independently  of  their  coolness. 

Ccesar.  I  wonder  not  at  any  thing  of  refined  elegance  in 
Lucullus  ;  but  really  here  Antiochia  and  Alexandria  seem  to 
have  cooked  for  us,  and  magicians  to  be  our  attendants. 


LUCULLUS  AND    C^SAR.  175 

LiuhUus.  The  absence  of  slaves  from  our  repast  is  the 
luxury,  for  Marcipor  alone  enters,  and  he  only  when  I  press 
a  spring  with  my  foot  or  wand.  When  you  desire  his  appear- 
ance, touch  that  chalcedony  just  before  you. 

Ccesar.  I  eat  quick  and  rather  plentifully ;  yet  the 
valetudinarian  (excuse  my  rusticity,  for  1  rejoice  at  seeing 
it)  appears  to  equal  the  traveller  in  appetite,  and  to  be  con- 
tented with  one  dish. 

LuchUus.  It  is  milk  :  such,  with  strawberries,  which  ripen 
on  the  Apennines  many  months  in  continuance,  and  some 
other  berries  of  sharp  and  grateful  flavour,  has  been  my  only 
diet  since  my  first  residence  here.  The  state  of  my  health 
requires  it;  and  the  habitude  of  nearly  three  months  renders 
this  food  not  only  more  commodious  to  my  studies  and  more 
conducive  to  my  sleep,  but  also  more  agreeable  to  my  palate 
than  any  other. 

CcBsar.  Returning  to  Rome  or  Baiae,  you  must  domesti- 
cate and  tame  them.  The  cherries  you  introduced  from 
Pontus  are  now  growing  in  Cisalpine  and  Transalpine  Gaul  ; 
and  the  largest  and  best  in  the  world,  perhaps,  are  upon  the 
more  sterile  side  of  Lake  Larius. 

Lucullus.  There  are  some  fruits,  and  some  virtues,  which 
require  a  harsh  soil  and  bleak  exposure  for  their  perfec- 
tion. 

Ccesar.  In  such  a  profusion  of  viands,  and  so  savoury,  I 
perceive  no  odour. 

LhchUus.  a  flue  conducts  heat  through  the  compart- 
ments of  the  obelisks  ;  and,  if  you  look  up,  you  may  observe 
that  those  gilt  roses,  between  the  astragals  in  the  cornice, 
are  prominent  from  it  half  a  span.  Here  is  an  aperture  in 
the  wall,  between  which  and  the  outer  is  a  perpetual  current 
of  air.  We  are  now  in  the  dog-days  ;  and  I  have  never  felt 
in  the  whole  summer  more  heat  than  at  Rome  in  many  days 
of  March. 


176  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Ccesar.  Usually  you  are  attended  by  troups  of  domestics 
and  of  dinner-friends,  not  to  mention  the  learned  and  scien- 
tific, nor  your  own  family,  your  attachment  to  which,  from 
youth  upward,  is  one  of  the  higher  graces  in  your  character. 
Your  brother  was  seldom  absent  from  you. 

Luculius.     Marcus  was  coming  ;  but  the  vehement  heats 
along  the  Arno,  in  which  valley  he  has  a  property  he  never 
saw  before,  inflamed  his  blood,  and  he  now  is  resting  for  a 
few  days  at  Faesulse,  a  little  town  destroyed  by  Sylla  within 
our  memory,   who  left   it  only   air  and  water,  the  best  in 
Tuscany.     The  health  of  Marcus,  like  mine,  has  been  de- 
clining  for  several   months  :  we  are  running  our  last  race 
against  each  other,  and  never  was  I,  in  youth    along  the 
Tiber,  so  anxious  of  first  reaching  the  goal.      I   would   not 
outlive  him  :    I  should  reflect  too  painfully  on  earlier  days, 
and  look  forward  too  despondently  on  the  future.     As  for 
friends,  lampreys  and  turbots  beget  them,  and  they  spawn 
not  amid  the  solitude  of  the  Apennines.     To  dine  in  com- 
pany with  more  than  two  is  a  Gaulish  and  a  German  thing. 
1  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  believe  that  I  have  eaten  in 
concert  with  twenty ;    so  barbarous  and  herdlike  a  practice 
does   it   now   appear    to   me  —  such  an   incentive  to  drink 
much   and  talk   loosely:    not   to   add,   such  n  necessity  to 
speak  loud,  which  is  clownish  and  odious  in  the  extreme. 
On  this  mountain-summit  I   hear  no  noises,  no  voices,  not 
even  of  salutation  ;  we  have  no  flies  about  us,  and  scarcely 
an  insect  or  reptile. 

Ccesar.     Your  amiable  son  is  probably  with  his  uncle:   is 

he  well  ? 

LuchUhs.  Perfectly.  He  was  indeed  with  my  brother  in 
his  intended  visit  to  me  ;  but  Marcus,  unable  to  accompany 
him  hither,  or  superintend  his  .studies  in  the  present  state  of 
his  health,  sent  him  directly  to  his  Uncle  Cato  at  Tusculum 
—  a  man  fitter  than  either  of  us  to  direct  his  education,  and 


LUCULLUS  AND    CAESAR.  177 

preferable  to  any,  excepting  yourself  and  Marcus  Tullius,  in 
eloquence  and  urbanity. 

CiEsar.  Cato  is  so  great,  that  whoever  is  greater  must  be 
the  happiest  and  first  of  men. 

Luciillus.  That  any  such  be  still  existing,  O  Julius,  ought 
to  excite  no  groan  from  the  breast  of  a  Roman  citizen.  But 
perhaps  I  wrong  you ;  perhaps  your  mind  was  forced  re- 
luctantly back  again,  on  your  past  animosities  and  contests 
in  the  Senate. 

Ccesar.     I  revere  him,  but  cannot  love  him. 

Luiullus.  Then,  Caius  Julius,  you  groaned  with  reason, 
and  I  would  pity  rather  than  reprove  you. 

On  the  ceiling  at  which  you  are  looking,  there  is  no 
gilding,  and  little  painting — a  mere  trellis  of  vines  bearing 
grapes,  and  the  heads,  shoulders,  and  arms,  rising  from  the 
cornice  only,  of  boys  and  girls  climbing  up  to  steal  them, 
and  scrambling  for  them  :  nothing  over-head ;  no  giants 
tumbling  down,  no  Jupiter  thundering,  no  Mars  and  Venus 
caught  at  Mid-day,  no  river-gods  pouring  out  their  urns 
upon  US;  for,  as  I  think  nothing  so  insipid  as  a  flat  ceiling, 
I  think  nothing  so  absurd  as  a  storied  one.  Before  I  was 
aware,  and  without  my  participation,  the  painter  had  adorned 
that  of  my  bed-chamber  with  a  golden  shower,  bursting  from 
varied  and  irradiated  clouds.  On  my  expostulation,  his 
excuse  was  that  he  knew  the  Danae  of  Scopas,  in  a  recum- 
bent posture,  was  to  occupy  tiie  centre  of  the  room.  The 
walls,  behind  the  tapestry  and  pictures,  are  quite  rough.  In 
forty-three  days  the  whole  fabric  was  put  together  and 
habitable. 

The  wine  has  probably  lost  its  freshness  :  will  you  try 
some  other  ? 

Ccesar.  Its  temperature  is  exact ;  its  flavour  exquisite. 
Latterly  I  have  never  sat  long  after  dinner,  and  am  curious 
to  pass  through  the  other  apartments,  if  you  will  trust  me. 


178  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

Lucullus.     I  attend  you. 

Casar.  Lucullus,  who  is  here  ?  What  figure  is  that  on 
the  poop  of  the  vessel  ?     Can  it  be  — 

Lucullus.     The  subject  was  dictated  by  myself ;  you  gave  it. 

Ca;sar.  Oh  how  beautifully  is  the  water  painted  !  How 
vividly  the  sun  strikes  against  the  snows  on  Taurus  !  The 
gray  temples  and  pier-head  of  Tarsus  catch  it  differently,  and 
the  monumental  mound  on  the  left  is  half  in  shade.  In  the 
countenance  of  those  pirates  I  did  not  observe  such  diversity, 
nor  that  any  boy  pulled  his  father  back  :  I  did  not  indeed 
mark  them  or  notice  them  at  all. 

Lucullus.  The  painter  in  this  fresco,  the  last  work 
finished,  had  dissatisfied  me  in  one  particular.  "  That 
beautiful  young  face,"  said  I,  "appears  not  to  threaten 
death." 

"Lucius,"  he  replied,  "  if  one  muscle  were  moved,  it  were 
not  Csesar's :  beside,  he  said  it  jokingly,  though  resolved." 

"  I  am  contented  with  your  apology,  Antipho ;  but  what 
are  you  doing  now  ?  for  you  never  lay  down  or  suspend  your 
pencil,  let  who  will  talk  and  argue.  The  lines  of  that  smaller 
face  in  the  distance  are  the  same." 

"  Not  the  same,"  replied  he,  "  nor  very  different :  it 
smiles,  as  surely  the  goddess  must  have  done  at  the  first 
heroic  act  of  her  descendant." 

CcBsar.  In  her  exultation  and  impatience  to  press  for- 
ward, she  seems  to  forget  that  she  is  standing  at  the  extremity 
of  the  shell,  which  rises  up  behind  out  of  the  water  ;  and 
she  takes  no  notice  of  the  terror  on  the  countenance  of  this 
Cupid  who  would  detain  her,  nor  of  this  who  is  flying  off 
and  looking  back.  The  reflection  of  the  shell  has  given  a 
warmer  hue  below  the  knee  ;  a  long  streak  of  yellow  light  in 
the  horizon  is  on  the  level  of  her  bosom,  some  of  her  hair  is 
almost  lost  in  it  ;  above  her  head  on  every  side  is  the  pure 
azure  of  the  heavens. 


LUCULLUS  AND    CMSAR.  179 

Oh!  and  you  would  not  have  led  me  up  to  this?  You, 
among  whose  primary  studies  is  the  most  perfect  satisfaction 
of  your  guests  ! 

Liiculliis.  In  the  next  apartment  are  seven  or  eight  other 
pictures  from  our  history. 

There  are  no  more  :  what  do  you  look  for? 

Ccesar.  I  find  not  among  the  rest  any  descriptive  of  your 
own  exploits.  Ah,  Lucullus !  there  is  no  surer  way  of 
making  them  remembered. 

This,  I  presume  by  the  harps  in  the  two  corners,  is  the 
music-room. 

Lucullus.  No,  indeed  ;  nor  can  I  be  said  to  have  one 
here:  for  I  love  best  the  music  of  a  single  instrument,  and 
listen  to  it  willingly  at  all  times,  but  most  willingly  while  I 
am  reading.  At  such  seasons,  a  voice  or  even  a  whisper 
disturbs  me  ;  but  music  refreshes  my  brain  when  I  have 
read  long,  and  strengthens  it  from  the  beginning.  I  find 
also  that  if  I  write  anything  in  poetry  (a  youthful  propensity 
still  remaining),  it  gives  rapidity  and  variety  and  brightness 
to  my  ideas.  On  ceasing,  1  command  a  fresh  measure  and 
instrument,  or  another  voice  ;  which  is  to  the  mind  like  a 
change  of  posture,  or  of  air  to  the  body.  My  health  is 
benefited  by  the  gentle  play  thus  opened  to  the  most 
delicate  of  the  fibres. 

Ceesar.  Let  me  augur  that  a  disorder  so  tractable  may 
be  soon  removed.     What  is  it  thought  to  be  ? 

Luadlus.  There  are  they  who  would  surmise  and  signify, 
and  my  physician  did  not  long  attempt  to  persuade  me  of 
the  contrary,  that  the  ancient  realms  of  Pastes  have  supplied 
me  with  some  other  plants  than  the  cherry,  and  such  as  I 
should  be  sorry  to  see  domesticated  here  in  Italy. 

Ccesar.  The  gods  forbid  !  Anticipate  better  things  !  The 
reason  of  Lucullus  is  stronger  than  the  medicaments  of 
Mithridates  ;    but  why  not  use  them  too  ?    Let  nothing  be 


180  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

neglected.  You  may  reasonably  hope  for  many  years  of 
life  :  your  mother  still  enjoys  it. 

Luck //lis.  To  stand  upon  one's  guard  against  Death 
exasperates  her  malice  and  protracts  our  sufferings. 

Ccesar.  Rightly  and  gravely  said  :  but  your  country  at 
this  time  cannot  do  well  without  you. 

Liicu//us.  The  bowl  of  milk,  which  to-day  is  presented  to 
me,  will  shortly  be  presented  to  my  Manes. 

Ccesar.     Do  you  suspect  the  hand .'' 

Lucii//us.  I  will  not  suspect  a  Roman  :  let  us  converse 
no  more  about  it. 

Ccesar.  It  is  the  only  subject  on  which  I  am  resolved 
never  to  think,  as  relates  to  myself.  Life  may  concern  us, 
death  not ;  for  in  death  we  neither  can  act  nor  reason,  we 
neither  can  persuade  nor  command  ;  and  our  statues  are 
worth  more  than  we  are,  let  them  be  but  wax. 

XXVII. 
THE    APOLOGUE    OF   CRITOBULUS. 

"I  WAS  wandering,"  says  Critobulus,  ''in  the  midst  of  a 
forest,  and  came  suddenly  to  a  small  round  fountain  or  pool, 
with  several  white  flowers  (1  remember)  and  broad  leaves 
in  the  centre  of  it,  but  clear  of  them  at  the  sides,  and  of  a 
water  the  most  pellucid.  Suddenly  a  very  beautiful  figure 
came  from  beliind  mc,  and  stood  between  me  and  the 
fountain.  1  was  amazed.  1  ccnild  not  distinguish  the  sex, 
the  form  being  youthful  and  the  face  toward  the  water,  on 
which  it  was  gazing  and  bending  over  its  reflection,  like 
another  Hylas  or  Narcissus.  It  then  stooped  and  adorned 
itself  with  a  few  of  the  simplest  flowers,  and  seemed  the 
fonder  and  tenderer  of  those  which  had  borne  the  impres- 
sion of  its  graceful  feet  ;  and,  having  done  so,  it  turned 
round  and  looked  upon  me  with  an  air  of  indifference  and 


THE    APOLOGUE    OF  CRITOBULUS.  181 

unconcern.     The  longer  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  her  —  for  I  now 
discovered  it  was  a  female  —  the  more  ardent  I  became  and 
the    more    embarrassed.       She    perceived    it,    and    smiled. 
Her  eyes  were  large  and  serene  ;  not  very  thoughtful  as  if 
perplexed,  not  very  playful  as  if  easily  to  be  won  ;  and  her 
countenance  was  tinged  with  so  delightful  a  colour,  that  it 
appeared  an  effluence  from  an  irradiated  cloud  passing  over 
it  in  the  heavens.     She  gave  me  the  idea,  from  her  graceful 
attitude,  that,  although  adapted  to  the  perfection  of  activity, 
she  felt  rather   an  inclination    for  repose.     I   would  have 
taken  her  hand  :  'You  shall  presently,'  said  she  ;  and  never 
fell  on  mortal  a  diviner  glance  than  on  me.      1   told  her  so. 
She   replied,  '  You  speak    well.'     I  then  fancied   she    was 
simple  and  weak,  and  fond  of  flattery,  and  began  to  flatter 
her.     She  turned   her  face  away  from   me,  and   answered 
nothing.     I  declared    my  excessive   love  :   she    went  some 
paces  off.      I  swore  it  was  impossible  for  one  who  had  ever 
seen  her  to  live  without  her :  she  went  several  paces  farther. 
'  By  the  immortal  gods  ! '  I  cried,  '  you  shall  not  leave  me! ' 
She  turned  round  and  looked  benignly;  but  shook  her  head. 
'  You  are  another's  then  !      Say  it  !  say  it  !  utter  the  word 
once  from  your  lips  —  and  let  me  die!'     She  smiled,  more 
melancholy  than  before,  and  replied,  '  O  Critobulus  !   I  am 
indeed  another's  :   I  am  a  god's.'     The  air  of  the  interior 
heavens  seemed  to  pierce  me  as  she  spoke  ;  and  I  trembled 
as  impassioned  men  may  tremble  once.     After  a  pause,  'I 
might  have  thought  it  !  '  cried  I  :  •  why  then  come  before  me 
and  torment  me .''  '      She  began  to  play  and  trifle  with  me, 
as  became  her  age  (I  fancied)  rather  than  her  engagement, 
and  she  placed  my  hand  upon  the  flowers  in  her  lap  without 
a   blush.     The  whole  fountain  would  not  at   that  moment 
have  assuaged  my  thirst.     The  sound  of  the  breezes  and  of 
the  birds  around  us,  even  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  were 
all  confounded  in  my  ear,  as  colours  are  in  the  fulness  and 


182  IMAGINARY   CONVERSATIONS. 

intensity  of  light.  She  said  many  pleasing  things  to  me,  to 
the  earlier  and  greater  part  of  which  I  was  insensible  ;  but 
in  the  midst  of  those  which  I  could  hear  and  was  listening 
to  attentively,  she  began  to  pluck  out  the  gray  hairs  from 
my  head,  and  to  tell  me  that  the  others  too  were  of  a  hue 
not  very  agreeable.  My  heart  sank  within  me.  Presently 
there  was  hardly  a  limb  or  feature  without  its  imperfection. 
'  Oh  ! '  cried  1  in  despair,  '  you  have  been  used  to  the  gods  ; 
you  must  think  so  :  but  among  men  I  do  not  believe  I  am 
considered  as  ill-made  or  unseemly.'  She  paid  little  atten- 
tion to  my  words  or  my  vexation;  and  when  she  had  gone 
on  with  my  defects  for  some  time  longer,  in  the  same  calm 
tone  and  with  the  same  sweet  countenance,  she  began  to 
declare  that  she  had  much  affection  for  me,  and  was  desirous 
of  inspiring  it  in  return.  I  was  about  to  answer  her  with 
rapture,  when  on  a  sudden,  in  her  girlish  humour,  she  stuck 
a  thorn,  wherewith  she  had  been  playing,  into  that  part  of 
the  body  which  supports  us  when  we  sit.  I  know  not 
whether  it  went  deeper  than  she  intended,  but,  catching  at 
it,  I  leaped  up  in  shame  and  anger,  and  at  the  same  moment 
felt  something  upon  my  shoulder.  It  was  an  armlet  inscribed 
with  letters  of  bossy  adamant,  '  Jove  to  his  daughter  Truth.' 
"  She  stood  again  before  me  at  a  distance,  and  said  grace- 
fully, '  Critobulus  !  I  am  too  young  and  simple  for  you  ; 
but  you  will  love  me  still,  and  not  be  made  unhappy  by  it 
in  the  end.     Farewell.'" 


XXVIII. 
THE    PENTAiMERON. 

FIFTH     day's     interview. 

It  being  now  the  last  morning  that  Petrarca  could  remain 
with  his  friend,  he  resolved  to  pass  early  into  his  bed- 
chamber, Boccaccio  had  risen,  and  was  standing  at  the  open 
window,  with  his  arms  against  it.  Renovated  health 
sparkled  in  the  eyes  of  the  one  ;  surprise  and  delight  and 
thankfulness  to  heaven,  filled  the  other's  with  sudden  tears. 
He  clasped  Giovanni,  kissed  his  flaccid  and  sallow  cheek, 
and  falling  on  his  knees,  adored  the  Giver  of  life,  the  source 
of  health  to  body  and  soul.  Giovanni  was  not  unmoved : 
he  bent  one  knee  as  he  leaned  on  the  shoulder  of  Francesco, 
looking  down  into  his  face,  repeating  his  words,  and  adding, 

"  Blessed  be  thou,  O  Lord  !  who  sendest  me  health  again  ! 
and  blessings  on  thy  messenger  who  brought  it." 

He  had  slept  soundly ;  for  ere  he  closed  his  eyes  he  had 
unburdened  his  mind  of  its  freight,  not  only  by  employing 
the  prayers  appointed  by  Holy  Church,  but  likewise  by 
ejaculating ;  as  sundry  of  the  fathers  did  of  old.  He 
acknowledged  his  contrition  for  many  transgressions,  and 
chiefly  for  uncharitable  thoughts  of  Fra  Biagio  :  on  which 
occasion  he  turned  fairly  round  on  his  couch,  and  leaning 
his  brow  against  the  wall,  and  his  body  being  in  a  becom- 
ingly curved  position,  and  proper  for  the  purpose,  he  thus 
ejaculated  : 

"Thou  knowest,  O  most  Holy  Virgin!  that  never  have  I 
spoken  to  handmaiden  at  this  villetta,  or  within  my  mansion 
at  Certaldo,  wantonly  or  indiscreetly,  but  have  always  been, 


184  THE   PENTAMERON. 

inasmuch  as  may  be,  the  guardian  of  innocence  ;  deeming  it 
better,  when  irregular  thoughts  assailed  me,  to  ventilate 
them  abroad  than  to  poison  the  house  with  them.  And  if, 
sinner  that  I  am,  I  have  thought  uncharitably  of  others,  and 
more  especially  of  Fra  Biagio,  pardon  me,  out  of  thy  exceed- 
ing great  mercies  !  And  let  it  not  be  imputed  to  me,  if  I 
have  kept,  and  may  keep  hereafter,  an  eye  over  him,  in 
wariness  and  watchfulness  ;  not  otherwise.  For  thou  know- 
est,  O  Madonna  !  that  many  who  have  a  perfect  and 
unwavering  faith  in  thee,  yet  do  cover  up  their  cheese  from 
the  nibblings  of  vermin." 

Whereupon,  he  turned  round  again,  threw  himself  on  his 
back  at  full  length,  and  feeling  the  sheets  cool,  smooth,  and 
refreshing,  folded  his  arms,  and  slept  instantaneously.  The 
consequence  of  his  wholesome  slumber  was  a  calm  alacrity: 
and  the  idea  that  his  visitor  would  be  happy  at  seeing  him 
on  his  feet  again,  made  him  attempt  to  get  up:  at  which  he 
succeeded,  to  his  own  wonder.  And  it  was  increased  by  the 
manifestation  of  his  strength  in  opening  the  casement,  stiff 
from  being  closed,  and  swelled  by  the  continuance  of  the 
rains.  The  morning  was  warm  and  sunny:  and  it  is  known 
that  on  this  occasion  he  composed  the  verses  below: 

My  old  familiar  cottage  green  ! 

I  see  once  more  thy  pleasant  sheen  ; 

The  gossamer  suspended  over 

Smart  celandine  by  lusty  clover ; 

And  the  last  blossom  of  the  plum 

Inviting  her  first  leaves  to  come  ; 

Which  hang  a  little  back,  but  show 

'T  is  not  their  nature  to  say  no. 

I  scarcely  am  in  voice  to  sing 

How  graceful  are  the  steps  of  spring  ; 

And  ah  !  it  makes  me  sigh  to  look 

How  leaps  along  my  merry  brook, 

The  very  same  today  as  when 

He  chirrupt  first  to  maids  and  men. 


THE   PENTAMERON.  185 

Fetrarca.     I  can  rejoice  at  the  freshness  of  your  feelings  : 
It   the   sight  of  the  green 
ultimate  use  and  destination. 


but   the   sight  of  the  green  turf  reminds  me  rather  of  its 


For  many  serves  the  parish  pall, 
The  turf  in  common  serves  for  all. 

Boccaccio.  Very  true  ;  and,  such  being  the  case,  let  us 
carefully  fold  it  up,  and  lay  it  by  until  we  call  for  it. 

Francesco,  you  made  me  quite  light-headed  yesterday. 
I  am  rather  too  old  to  dance  either  with  Spring,  as  I  have 
been  saying,  or  with  Vanity:  and  yet  I  accepted  her  at  your 
hand  as  a  partner.  In  future,  no  more  of  comparisons  for 
me  !  You  not  only  can  do  me  no  good,  but  you  can  leave  me 
no  pleasure:  for  here  I  shall  remain  the  few  days  I  have  to 
live,  and  shall  see  nobody  who  will  be  disposed  to  remind 
me  of  your  praises.  Beside,  you  yourself  will  get  hated  for 
them.  We  neither  can  deserve  praise  nor  receive  it  with 
impunity. 

Fetrarca.  Have  you  never  remarked  that  it  is  into  quiet 
water  that  children  throw  pebbles  to  disturb  it.''  and  that  it 
is  into  deep  caverns  that  the  idle  drop  sticks  and  dirt  ? 
We  must  expect  such  treatment. 

Boccaccio.  V'our  admonition  shall  have  its  wholesome 
influence  over  me,  when  the  fever  your  praises  have  excited 
has  grown  moderate. 

*       *       *       * 

Fetrarca.  Turn  again,  I  entreat  you,  to  the  serious ;  and 
do  not  imagine  that  because  by  nature  you  are  inclined  to 
playfulness,  you  must  therefore  write  ludicrous  things  better. 
Many  of  your  stories  would  make  the  gravest  men  laugh, 
and  yet  there  is  little  wit  in  them. 

Boccaccio.  I  think  so  myself  ;  though  authors,  little  dis- 
posed as  they  are  to  doubt  their  possession  of  any  quality 


186  THE   PENTAMERON. 

they  would  bring  into  play,  are  least  of  all  suspicious  on  the 
side  of  wit.  You  have  convinced  me.  I  am  glad  to  have 
been  tender,  and  to  have  written  tenderly  :  for  I  am  certain 
it  is  this  alone  that  has  made  you  love  me  with  such  affec- 
tion. 

Fetrarca.  Not  this  alone,  Giovanni !  but  this  principally. 
I  have  always  found  you  kind  and  compassionate,  liberal  and 
sincere,  and  when  Fortune  does  not  stand  very  close  to  such 
a  man,  she  leaves  only  the  more  room  for  Friendship. 

Boccaccio.  Let  her  stand  off  then,  now  and  for  ever  !  To 
my  heart,  to  my  heart,  Francesco !  preserver  of  my  health, 
my  peace  of  mind,  and  (since  you  tell  me  I  may  claim  it) 
my  glory. 

Pctrarca.  Recovering  your  strength  you  must  pursue 
your  studies  to  complete  it.  What  can  you  have  been  doing 
with  your  books  ?  I  have  searched  in  vain  this  morning 
for  the  treasury.  Where  are  they  kept  ?  Formerly  they 
were  always  open.  I  found  only  a  short  manuscript,  which 
I  suspect  is  poetry,  but  I  ventured  not  on  looking  into  it, 
until  I  had  brought  it  with  me  and  laid  it  before  you. 

Boccaccio.  Well  guessed  !  They  are  verses  written  by  a 
gentleman  who  resided  long  in  this  country,  and  who  much 
regretted  the  necessity  of  leaving  it.  He  took  great  delight 
in  composing  both  Latin  and  Italian,  but  never  kept  a  copy 
of  them  latterly,  so  that  these  are  the  only  ones  I  could 
obtain  from  him.      Read  :  for  your  voice  will  improve  them. 

TO    MY    CUIM)    CARI.INO. 

Carlino  !  what  art  thou  about,  my  boy  ? 
Often  I  ask  that  question,  though  in  vain, 
For  we  are  far  ajmrt  :  ah  !  therefore  't  is 
I  often  ask  it  ;   not  in  such  a  tone 
As  wiser  fathers  do,  who  know  too  well. 
Were  we  not  children,  you  and  I  together? 
Stole  we  not  glances  from  each  other's  eyes  ? 


THE   PENTAMERON.  187 

Swore  we  not  secrecy  in  such  misdeeds  ? 

Well  could  we  trust  each  other.     Tell  me  then 

What  thou  art  doing.     Carving  out  thy  name, 

Or  haply  mine,  upon  my  favourite  seat. 

With  the  new  knife  I  sent  thee  over  sea  t 

Or  hast  thou  broken  it,  and  hid  the  hilt 

Among  the  myrtles,  starr'd  with  flowers,  behind  .'' 

Or  under  that  high  throne  whence  fifty  lilies 

(With  sworded  tuberoses  dense  around) 

Lift  up  their  heads  at  once,  not  without  fear 

That  they  were  looking  at  thee  all  the  while. 

Does  Cincirillo  follow  thee  about. 
Inverting  one  swart  foot  suspensively. 
And  wagging  his  dread  jaw  at  every  chirp 
Of  bird  above  him  on  the  olive-branch .' 
Frighten  him  then  away  !  't  was  he  who  slew 
Our  pigeons,  our  white  pigeons  peacock-tailed. 
That  fear'd  not  you  and  me  —  alas,  nor  him  I 
I  flattened  his  striped  sides  along  my  knee, 
And  reasoned  with  him  on  his  bloody  mind, 
Till  he  looked  blandly,  and  half-closed  his  eyes 
To  ponder  on  my  lecture  in  the  shade. 
I  doubt  his  memory  much,  his  heart  a  little. 
And  in  some  minor  matters  (may  I  say  it  ?) 
Could  wish  him  rather  sager.     But  from  thee 
God  hold  back  wisdom  yet  for  many  years  ! 
Whether  in  early  season  or  in  late 
It  always  comes  high-priced.     For  thy  pure  Ijreast 
I  have  no  lesson  ;  it  for  me  has  many. 
Come  throw  it  open  then  !   What  sports,  what  cares 
(Since  tliere  are  none  too  young  for  these)  engage 
Thy  busy  thoughts  .''     Are  you  again  at  work, 
Walter  and  you,  with  those  sly  labourers, 
Geppo,  Giovanni,  Cecco,  and  Poeta, 
To  build  more  solidly  your  broken  dam 
Among  the  poplars,  whence  the  nightingale 
Inquisitively  watch'd  you  all  day  long  ? 
I  was  not  of  your  council  in  the  scheme. 
Or  might  have  saved  you  silver  without  end. 
And  sighs  too  without  number.     Art  thou  gone 


188  THE  PENTAMERON. 

Below  the  mulberry,  where  that  cold  pool 

Urged  to  devise  a  warmer,  and  more  fit 

For  mighty  swimmers,  swimming  three  abreast? 

Or  art  thou  panting  in  this  summer  noon 

Upon  the  lowest  step  before  the  hall, 

Drawing  a  slice  of  watermelon,  long 

As  Cupid's  bow,  'athwart  thy  wetted  lips 

(Like  one  who  plays  Fan's  pipe),  and  letting  drop 

The  sable  seeds  from  all  their  separate  cells, 

And  leaving  bays  profound  and  rocks  abrupt. 

Redder  than  coral  round  Calypso's  cave  ? 

Pctf-arca.  There  have  been  those  anciently  who  would 
have  been  pleased  with  such  poetr}^,  and  perhaps  there  may 
be  again.  I  am  not  sorry  to  see  the  Muses  by  the  side  of 
childhood,  and  forming  a  part  of  the  family.  But  now  tell 
me  about  the  books. 

Boccaccio.  Resolving  to  lay  aside  the  more  valuable  of 
those  I  had  collected  or  transcribed,  and  to  place  them 
under  the  guardianship  of  richer  men,  I  locked  them  up 
together  in  the  higher  story  of  my  tower  at  Certaldo.  You 
remember  the  old  tower  ? 

Peh-ajxa.  Well  do  I  remember  the  hearty  laugh  we  had 
together  (which  stopped  us  upon  the  staircase)  at  the  calcu- 
lation we  made,  how  much  longer  you  and  I,  if  we  continued 
to  thrive  as  we  had  thriven  latterly,  should  be  able  to  pass 
within  its  narrow  circle.  Although  I  like  this  little  villa 
much  better,  I  would  gladly  see  the  place  again,  and  enjoy 
with  you,  as  we  did  before,  the  vast  expanse  of  woodlands 
and  mountains  and  maremma;  frowning  fortresses  inex- 
pugnable; and  others  more  prodigious  for  their  ruins;  then 
below  them,  lordly  abbeys,  overcanopied  with  stately  trees 
and  girded  with  rich  luxuriance ;  and  towns  that  seem 
approaching  them  to  do  them  honour,  and  villages  nestling 
close  at  their  sides  for  sustenance  and  protection. 

Boccaccio.     My  disorder,  if  it  should  keep  its  promise  of 


THE   PENTAMERON.  1S9 

leaving  me  at  last,  will  have  been  preparing  me  for  the 
accomplishment  of  such  a  project.  Should  I  get  thinner 
and  thinner  at  this  rate,  1  shall  soon  be  able  to  mount  not 
only  a  turret  or  a  belfry,  but  a  tube  of  macarone,  while  a 
Neapolitan  is  suspending  it  for  deglutition. 

What  1  am  now  about  to  mention,  will  show  you  how  little 
you  can  rely  on  me  !  I  have  preserved  the  books,  as  you 
desired,  but  quite  contrary  to  my  resolution :  and,  no  less 
contrary  to  it,  by  your  desire  I  shall  now  preserve  the 
Decameron.  In  vain  had  I  determined  not  only  to  mend  in 
future,  but  to  correct  the  past  ;  in  vain  had  1  prayed  most 
fervently  for  grace  to  accomplish  it,  with  a  final  aspiration  to 
Fiammetta  that  she  would  unite  with  your  beloved  Laura, 
and  that,  gentle  and  beatified  spirits  as  they  are,  they  would 
breathe  together  their  purer  prayers  on  mine.  See  what  follows. 

Petrarca.  Sigh  not  at  it.  Before  we  can  see  all  that 
follows  from  their  intercession,  we  must  join  them  again. 
But  let  me  hear  anything  in  which  they  are  concerned. 

Boccaccio.  1  prayed;  and  my  breast,  after  some  few 
tears,  grew  calmer.  Yet  sleep  did  not  ensue  until  the 
break  of  morning,  when  the  dropping  of  soft  rain  on  the 
leaves  of  the  fig-tree  at  the  window,  and  the  chirping  of  a 
little  bird,  to  tell  another  there  was  shelter  under  them, 
brought  me  repose  and  slumber.  Scarcely  had  I  closed  my 
eyes,  if  indeed  time  can  be  reckoned  any  more  in  sleep  than 
in  heaven,  when  my  Fiammetta  seemed  to  have  led  me  into 
the  meadow.  You  will  see  it  below  you  :  turn  away  that 
branch  :  gently  !  gently  !  do  not  break  it ;  for  the  little  bird 
sat  there. 

Petrarca.  I  think,  Giovanni,  1  can  divine  the  place. 
Although  this  fig-tree,  growing  out  of  the  wall  between  the 
cellar  and  us,  is  fantastic  enough  in  its  branches,  yet  that 
other  which  I  see  yonder,  bent  down  and  forced  to  crawl 
along  the  grass  by  the   prepotency  of   the   young  shapely 


190  THE   PENTAMERON. 

walnut-tree,  is  much  more  so.  It  forms  a  seat,  about  a 
cubit  above  the  ground,  level  and  long  enough  for  several. 

Boccaccio.  Ha !  you  fancy  it  must  be  a  favourite  spot  with 
me,  because  of  the  two  strong  forked  stakes  wherewith  it  is 
propped  and  supported  ! 

Petrarca.  Poets  know  the  haunts  of  poets  at  first  sight ; 
and  he  who  loved  I^aura  —  O  Laura!  did  I  say  he  who 
loved  thee  .-"  —  hath  whisperings  where  those  feet  would 
wander  which  have  been  restless  after  Hammetta. 

Boccaccio.  It  is  true,  my  imagination  has  often  conducted 
her  thither;  but  here  in  this  chamber  she  appeared  to  me 
more  visibly  in  a  dream. 

"  Thy  prayers  have  been  heard,  O  Giovanni,"  said  she. 

I  sprang  to  embrace  her. 

"  Do  not  spill  the  water !  Ah !  you  have  spilt  a  part 
of  it." 

I  then  observed  in  her  hand  a  crystal  vase.  A  few  drops 
were  sparkling  on  the  sides  and  running  down  the  rim  ;  a 
few  were  trickling  from  the  base  and  from  the  hand  that 
held  it. 

"I  must  go  down  to  the  brook,"  said  she,  "and  fill  it 
again  as  it  was  filled  before." 

What  a  moment  of  agony  was  this  to  me  !  Could  I  be 
certain  how  long  might  be  her  absence  .''  She  went  :  I  was 
following  :  she  made  a  sign  for  me  to  turn  back :  I  dis- 
obeyed her  only  an  instant  :  yet  my  sense  of  disobedience, 
increasing  my  feebleness  and  confusion,  made  me  lose  sight 
of  her.  In  the  next  moment  she  was  again  at  my  side,  with 
the  cup  quite  full.  I  stood  motionless :  I  feared  my  breath 
might  shake  the  water  over.  I  looked  her  in  the  face  for 
her  commands  —  and  to  see  it  —  to  see  it  so  calm,  so 
beneficent,  so  beautiful.  I  was  forgetting  wliat  I  had  prayed 
for,  when  she  lowered  her  head,  tasted  of  the  cup,  and  gave 
it   me.     I   drank ;    and   suddenly   sprang   forth   before   me, 


THE   PENTAMERON.  191 

many  groves  and  palaces  and  gardens,  and  their  statues  and 
their  avenues,  and  their  labyrinths  of  alaternus  and  bay,  and 
alcoves  of  citron,  and  watchful  loopholes  in  the  retirements 
of  impenetrable  pomegranate.  Farther  off,  just  below  where 
the  fountain  slipt  away  from  its  marble  hall  and  guardian 
gods,  arose,  from  their  beds  of  moss  and  drosera  and 
darkest  grass,  the  sisterhood  of  oleanders,  fond  of  tantalis- 
ing with  their  bosomed  flowers  and  their  moist  and  pouting 
blossoms  the  little  shy  rivulet,  and  of  covering  its  face  with 
all  the  colours  of  the  dawn.  My  dream  expanded  and  moved 
forward.  I  trod  again  the  dust  of  Posilipo,  soft  as  the 
feathers  in  the  wings  of  Sleep.  1  emerged  on  Baia ;  I 
crossed  her  innumerable  arches  ;  I  loitered  in  the  breezy 
sunshine  of  her  mole  ;  I  trusted  the  faithful  seclusion  of  her 
caverns,  the  keepers  of  so  many  secrets  ;  and  I  reposed  on 
the  buoyancy  of  her  tepid  sea.  Then  Naples,  and  her 
theatres  and  her  churches,  and  grottoes  and  dells  and  forts 
and  promontories,  rushed  forward  in  confusion,  now  among 
soft  whispers,  now  among  sweetest  sounds,  and  subsided, 
and  sank,  and  disappeared.  Yet  a  memory  seemed  to  come 
fresh  from  every  one  :  each  had  time  enough  for  its  tale,  for 
its  pleasure,  for  its  reflection,  for  its  pang.  As  I  mounted 
with  silent  steps  the  narrow  staircase  of  the  old  palace,  how 
distinctly  did  I  feel  against  the  palm  of  my  hand  the  cold- 
ness of  that  smooth  stone-work,  and  the  greater  of  the 
cramps  of  iron   in   it. 

"  Ah  me  !  is  this  forgetting  ? "  cried  I  anxiously  to 
Fiammetta. 

"  We  must  recall  these  scenes  before  us,"  she  replied  : 
"such  is  the  punishment  of  them.  Let  us  hope  and  believe 
that  the  apparition,  and  the  compunction  which  must  follow 
it,  will  be  accepted  as  the  full  penalty,  and  that  both  will 
pass  away  almost  together." 

I  feared  to  lose  anything  attendant  on  her  presence  :  I 


192  THE   FENTAMERON. 

feared  to  approach  her  forehead  with  my  Hps  :  I  feared  to 
touch  the  Hly  on  its  long  wavy  leaf  in  her  hair,  which  filled 
my  whole  heart  with  fragrance.  Venerating,  adoring,  I 
bowed  my  head  at  last  to  kiss  her  snow-white  robe,  and 
trembled  at  my  presumption.  And  yet  the  effulgence  of  her 
countenance  vivified  while  it  chastened  me.  1  loved  her  — 
I  must  not  say  7norc  than  ever  —  better  than  ever  ;  it  was 
Fiammetta  who  had  inhabited  the  skies.  As  my  hand 
opened  toward  her, 

"  Beware  !  "  said  she,  faintly  smiling  ;  "  beware,  Giovanni ! 
Take  only  the  crystal  ;  take  it,  and  drink  again." 

"  Must  all  be  then  forgotten  } "  said  I  sorrowfully. 

"  Remember  your  prayer  and  mine,  Giovanni.  Shall  both 
have  been  granted — O  how  much  worse  than  in  vain  !  " 

I  drank  instantly  ;  I  drank  largely.  How  cool  my  bosom 
grew  ;  how  could  it  grow  so  cool  before  her  !  But  it  was 
not  to  remain  in  its  quiescency  ;  its  trials  were  not  yet  over. 
I  will  not,  Francesco  !  no,  1  may  not  commemorate  the 
incidents  she  related  to  me,  nor  which  of  us  said,  "  I  blush 
for  having  loved  first;"  nor  which  of  us  replied,  "Say 
leasts   say  least,   and   l)lusli   again." 

The  charm  of  the  words  (for  I  felt  not  the  encumbrance 
of  the  body  nor  the  acuteness  of  the  spirit)  seemed  to 
possess  me  wholly.  Although  the  water  gave  me  strength 
and  comfort,  and  somewhat  of  celestial  pleasure,  many  tears 
fell  around  the  border  of  the  vase  as  she  held  it  up  before 
me,  exhorting  me  to  take  courage,  and  inviting  me  with 
more  than  exhortation  to  accomplish  my  deliverance.  She 
came  nearer,  more  tenderly,  more  earnestly  ;  she  held  the 
dewy  globe  with  both  hands,  leaning  forward,  and  sighed  and 
shook  her  head,  drooping  at  my  pusillanimity.  It  was  only 
when  a  ringlet  had  touched  the  rim,  and  perhaps  the  water 
(for  a  sunbeam  on  the  surface  could  never  have  given  it 
such  a  golden   huej,  that  I  took  courage,  claspefl  it,  and 


THE  PENTAMERON.  193 

exhausted  it.  Sweet  as  was  the  water,  sweet  as  was  the 
serenity  it  gave  me — alas!  that  also  which  it  moved  away 
from  me  was  sweet  ! 

"  This  time  you  can  trust  me  alone,"  said  she,  and  parted 
my  hair,  and  kissed  my  brow.  Again  she  went  toward  the 
brook  :  again  my  agitation,  my  weakness,  my  doubt,  came 
over  me  :  nor  could  I  see  her  while  she  raised  the  water, 
nor  "knew  I  whence  she  drew  it.  When  she  returned,  she 
was  close  to  me  at  once  :  she  smiled  :  her  smile  pierced  me 
to  the  bones  :  it  seemed  an  angel's.  She  sprinkled  the  pure 
water  on  me  ;  she  looked  most  fondly  :  she  took  my  hand  ; 
she  suffered  me  to  press  hers  to  my  bosom  :  but,  whether 
by  design  I  can  not  tell,  she  let  fall  a  few  drops  of  the  chilly 
element  between. 

"And  now,  O  my  beloved!"  said  she,  "we  have  con- 
signed to  the  bosom  of  God  our  earthly  joys  and  sorrows. 
The  joys  can  not  return,  let  not  the  sorrows.  These  alone 
would  trouble  my  repose  among  the  blessed." 

"Trouble  thy  repose  !  Fiammetta  !  Give  me  the  chalice  !  " 
cried  I  —  "  not  a  drop  will  I  leave  in  it,  not  a  drop." 

"Take  it!"  said  that  soft  voice.  "O  now  most  dear 
Giovanni  !  I  know  thou  hast  strength  enough  ;  and  there  is 
but  little  —  at  the  bottom  lies  our  first  kiss." 

"  Mine  !  didst  thou  say,  beloved  one  ?  and  is  that  left 
thee  still  ?  " 

"  J////^,"  said  she,  pensively  ;  and  as  she  abased  her  head, 
the  broad  leaf  of  the  lily  hid  her  brow  and  her  eyes  ;  the 
light  of  heaven  shone  through  the  flower. 

"  O  Fiammetta  !  Fiammetta  !  "  cried  I  in  agony,  "  God 
is  the  God  of  mercy,  God  is  the  God  of  love  —  can  I,  can  I 
ever  ?  "  I  struck  the  chalice  against  my  head,  unmindful 
that  1  held  it  ;  the  water  covered  my  face  and  my  feet. 
I  started  up,  not  yet  awake,  and  I  heard  the  name  of 
Fiammetta  in  the  curtains. 


194  THE   PENTAMERON. 

Petrarca.  Love,  O  Giovanni,  and  life  itself,  are  but 
dreams  at  best. 

tP  n^  tP  "B^ 

Boccaccio.     What  is  that  book  in  your  hand  ? 

Petrarca.      My  breviary. 

Boccaccio.  Well,  give  me  mine  too  —  there,  on  the  little 
table  in  the  corner,  under  the  glass  of  primroses.  We  can 
do  nothing  better. 

Petrarca.  What  prayer  were  you  looking  for  ?  let  me 
find   it. 

Boccaccio.  I  don't  know  how  it  is  :  I  am  scarcely  at 
present  in  a  frame  of  mind  for  it.  We  are  of  one  faith  : 
the  prayers  of  the  one  will  do  for  the  other :  and  I  am 
sure,  if  you  omitted  my  name,  you  would  say  them  all  over 
afresh.  I  wish  you  could  recollect  in  any  book  as  dreamy 
a  thing  to  entertain  me  as  I  have  been  just  repeating.  We 
have  had  enough  of  Dante  :  1  believe  few  of  his  beauties 
have  escaped  us  :  and  small  faults,  which  we  readily  pass 
by,  are  fitter  for  small  folks,  as  grubs  are  the  proper  bait 
for  gudgeons. 

/'(•trarca.  1  have  iiad  as  many  dreams  as  most  men. 
We  are  all  made  up  of  them,  as  the  webs  of  the  spider  are 
particles  of  her  own  vitality.  But  how  infinitely  less  do  we 
profit  by  them  !  I  will  relate  to  you,  before  we  separate,  one 
among  the  multitude  of  mine,  as  coming  the  nearest  to  the 
poetry  of  yours,  and  as  having  been  not  totally  useless  to 
me.  Often  have  I  reflected  on  it ;  sometimes  with  pensive- 
ness,  with  sadness  never. 

Boccaccio.  Then,  Francesco,  if  you  had  with  you  as 
copious  a  choice  of  dreams  as  clustered  on  the  elm-trees 
where  the  Sibyl  led  y^^neas,  this,  in  preference  to  the  whole 
swarm  of  them,  is  the  queen  dream  for  me. 

Petrarca.     When  I  was  younger  I  was  fond  of  wandering 


THE   PENTAMERON.  195 

in  solitary  places,  and  never  was  afraid  of  slumbering  in 
woods  and  grottoes.  Among  the  chief  pleasures  of  my  life, 
and  among  the  commonest  of  my  occupations,  was  the 
bringing  before  me  such  heroes  and  heroines  of  antiquity, 
such  poets  and  sages,  such  of  the  prosperous  and  the 
unfortunate,  as  most  interested  me  by  their  courage,  their 
wisdom,  their  eloquence,  or  their  adventures.  Engaging 
them  in  the  conversation  best  suited  to  their  characters,  I 
knew  perfectly  their  manners,  their  steps,  their  voices  :  and 
often  did  I  moisten  with  my  tears  thtj  models  I  had  been 
forming  of  the  less  happy. 

Boccaccio.  Great  is  the  privilege  of  entering  into  the 
studies  of  the  intellectual ;  great  is  that  of  conversing  with 
the  guides  of  nations,  the  movers  of  the  mass,  the  regulators 
of  the  unruly  will,  stiff,  in  its  impurity  and  rust,  against  the 
finger  of  tlie  Almighty  Power  that  formed  it  :  but  give  me, 
Francesco,  give  me  rather  the  creature  to  sympathise  with  ; 
apportion  me  the  sufferings  to  assuage.  Ah,  gentle  soul! 
thou  wilt  never  send  them  over  to  another  ;  they  have  better 
hopes  from  thee. 

Petrarca.  We  both  alike  feel  the  sorrows  of  those  around 
us.  He  who  suppresses  or  allays  them  in  another,  breaks 
many  thorns  off  his  own  ;  and  future  years  will  never  harden 
fresh  ones. 

My  occupation  was  not  always  in  making  the  politician 
talk  politics,  the  orator  toss  his  torch  among  the  populace, 
the  philosopher  run  down  from  philosophy  to  cover  the 
retreat  or  the  advances  of  his  sect  ;  but  sometimes  in  devising 
how  such  characters  must  act  and  discourse,  on  subjects  far 
remote  from  the  beaten  track  of  their  career.  In  like 
manner  the  philologist,  and  again  the  dialectician,  were  not 
indulged  in  the  review  and  parade  of  their  trained  bands, 
but,  at  times,  brought  forward  to  show  in  what  manner  and 
in  what  degree  external  habits  had  influenced  the  conforma- 


196  THE   PENTAMEKON. 

tion  of  the  internal  man.  It  was  far  from  unprofitable  to  set 
passing  events  before  past  actors,  and  to  record  the  decisions 
of  those  whose  interests  and  passions  are  unconcerned  in 
them. 

Boccaccio.  This  is  surely  no  easy  matter.  The  thoughts 
are  in  fact  your  own,  however  you  distribute  them. 

*         *         *         * 

Petrarca.  Allegory,  which  you  named  with  sonnets  and 
canzonets,  had  few  attractions  for  me,  believing  it  to  be  the 
delight  in  general  of  idle,  frivolous,  inexcursive  minds,  in 
whose  mansions  there  is  neither  hall  nor  portal  to  receive 
the  loftier  of  the  Passions.  A  stranger  to  the  Affections, 
she  holds  a  low  station  among  the  handmaidens  of  Poetry, 
being  fit  for  little  but  an  apparition  in  a  mask.  1  had 
reflected  for  some  time  on  this  subject,  when,  wearied  with 
the  length  of  my  walk  over  the  mountains,  and  finding  a 
soft  old  molehill,  covered  with  grey  grass,  by  the  wayside,  I 
laid  my  head  upon  it,  and  slept.  I  can  not  tell  how  long  it 
was  before  a  species  of  dream  or  vision  came  over  me. 

Two  beautiful  youths  appeared  beside  me ;  each  was 
winged;  but  the  wings  were  hanging  down,  and  seemed  ill 
adapted  to  fiight.  One  of  them,  whose  voice  was  the  softest 
I  ever  heard,  looking  at  me  frequently,  said  to  the  other, 

"  He  is  under  my  guardianship  for  the  present  :  do  not 
awaken  him  with  that  feather." 

Methought,  hearing  the  whisper,  I  saw  something  like  the 
feather  on  an  arrow;  and  then  the  arrow  itself;  the  whole 
of  it,  even  to  the  point  ;  although  he  carried  it  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  was  difficult  at  first  to  discover  more  than  a 
palm's  length  of  it  :  the  rest  of  the  shaft,  and  the  whole  of 
the  barb,  was  behind  his  ankles. 

"This  feather  never  awakens  anyone,"  replied  he,  rather 
petulantly ;   "  but  it  brings  more  of  confident  security,  and 


THE    PENTAMERON.  197 

more  of  cherished  dreams,  than  you  without  me  are  capable 
of  imparting." 

"Be  it  so!"  answered  the  gentler — "none  is  less 
inclined  to  quarrel  or  dispute  than  I  am.  Many  whom  you 
have  wounded  grievously,  call  upon  me  for  succour.  IJut  so 
little  am  I  disposed  to  thwart  you,  it  is  seldom  1  venture  to 
do  more  for  them  than  to  whisper  a  few  words  of  comfort  in 
passing.  How  many  reproaches  on  these  occasions  have 
been  cast  upon  me  for  indifference  and  infidelity  !  Nearly 
as  many,  and  nearly  in  the  same  terms,  as  upon  you  !  " 

"Odd  enough  that  we,  O  Sleep  !  should  be  thought  so 
alike  !  "  said  Love,  contemptuously.  "  Yonder  is  he  who 
bears  a  nearer  resemblance  to  you  :  the  dullest  have  ob- 
served it."  I  fancied  I  turned  my  eyes  to  where  he  was 
pointing,  and  saw  at  a  distance  the  figure  he  designated. 
Meanwhile  the  contention  went  on  uninterruptedly.  Sleep 
was  slow  in  asserting  his  power  or  his  benefits.  Love 
recapitulated  them  ;  but  only  that  he  might  assert  his  own 
above  them.  Suddenly  he  called  on  me  to  decide,  and  to 
choose  my  patron.  Under  the  influence,  first  of  the  one, 
then  of  the  other,  I  sprang  from  repose  to  rapture,  I 
alighted  from  rapture  on  repose  —  and  knew  not  which  was 
sweetest.  Love  wms  very  angry  with  me,  and  declared  he 
would  cross  me  throughout  the  whole  of  my  existence. 
Whatever  I  might  on  other  occasions  have  thought  of  his 
veracity,  I  now  felt  too  surely  the  conviction  that  he  would 
keep  his  word.  At  last,  before  the  close  of  the  altercation, 
the  third  Genius  had  advanced,  and  stood  near  us.  I  can 
not  tell  how  I  knew  him,  but  I  knew  him  to  be  the  Genius 
of  Death.  Breathless  as  I  was  at  beholding  him,  I  soon 
became  familiar  with  his  features.  First  they  seemed  only 
calm  ;  presently  they  grew  contemplative  :  and  lastly 
beautiful  :  those  of  the  Graces  themselves  are  less  regular, 
less    harmonious,    less    composed.     Love    glanced    at    him 


198  THE   PENTAMERON. 

unsteadily,  with  a  countenance  in  which  there  was  some- 
what of  anxiety,  somewhat  of  disdain  ;  and  cried,  "  Go 
away  !    go  away  !    nothing  that  thou  touchest  lives." 

"  Say  rather,  child  !  "  replied  the  advancing  form,  and 
advancing  grew  loftier  and  statelier,  "  Say  rather  that 
nothing  of  beautiful  or  of  glorious  lives  its  own  true  life 
until  my  wing  hath  passed  over  it." 

Love  pouted,  and  rumpled  and  bent  down  with  his  fore- 
finger the  stiff  short  feathers  on  his  arrow-head  ;  but  replied 
not.  Although  he  frowned  worse  than  ever,  and  at  me,  I 
dreaded  him  less  and  less,  and  scarcely  looked  toward  him. 
The  milder  and  calmer  Genius,  the  third,  in  proportion  as 
I  took  courage  to  contemplate  him,  regarded  me  with  more 
and  more  complacency.  He  held  neither  flower  nor  arrow, 
as  the  others  did  ;  but,  throwing  back  the  clusters  of  dark 
curls  that  overshadowed  his  countenance,  he  presented  to 
me  his  hand,  openly  and  benignly.  I  shrank  on  looking  at 
him  so  near,  and  yet  1  sighed  to  love  him.  He  smiled,  not 
without  an  expression  of  pity,  at  perceiving  my  diffidence, 
my  timidity  :  for  I  remembered  how  soft  was  the  hand  of 
Sleep,  how  warm  and  entrancing  was  Love's.  By  degrees, 
I  became  ashamed  of  my  ingratitude  ;  and  turning  my  face 
away,  1  held  out  my  arms,  and  felt  my  neck  within  his. 
Composure  strewed  and  allayed  all  the  throbbings  of  my 
bosom  ;  the  coolness  of  freshest  morning  breathed  around  ; 
the  heavens  seemed  to  open  above  me  ;  while  the  beautiful 
cheek  of  my  deliverer  rested  on  my  head.  I  would  now 
have  looked  for  those  others  ;  but  knowing  my  intention  by 
my  gesture,  he  said,  consolatorily, 

"  Sleep  is  on  his  way  to  the  Earth,  where  many  are  calling 
him  ;  but  it  is  not  to  these  he  hastens  ;  for  every  call  only 
makes  him  fly  farther  off.  Sedately  and  gravely  as  he 
looks,  he  is  nearly  as  capricious  and  volatile  as  the  more 
arrogant  and  ferocious  one." 


THE   PENTAMERON.  199 

"  And  Love  !  "  said  I,  "  whither  is  he  departed  ?  If  not 
too  late,  I  would  propitiate  and  appease  him." 

"  He  who  can  not  follow  me,  he  who  can  not  overtake 
and  pass  me,"  said  the  Genius,  "is  unworthy  of  the  name, 
the  most  glorious  in  earth  or  heaven.  Look  up  !  Love  is 
yonder,  and  ready  to  receive  thee." 

I  looked  :  the  earth  was  under  me  :  I  saw  only  the  clear 
blue  sky,  and  something  brighter  above  it. 


XXIX. 
PERICLES    AND    ASPASIA. 


PERICLES    TO   ASPASIA. 

There  are  things,  Aspasia,  beyond  the  art  of  Phidias.  He 
may  represent  Love  leaning  upon  his  bow  and  listening  to 
Philosophy  ;  but  not  for  hours  together  :  he  may  represent 
Love,  while  he  is  giving  her  a  kiss  for  her  lesson,  tying  her 
arms  behind  her ;  loosing  them  again  must  be  upon  another 
marble. 

PERICLES    TO    ASPASIA. 

Do  you  love  me  .''  do  you  love  me  ?  Stay,  reason  upon  it, 
sweet  Aspasia  !  doubt,  hesitate,  question,  drop  it,  take  it  up 
again,  provide,  raise  obstacles,  reply  indirectly.  Oracles  are 
sacred,  and  there  is  a  pride  in  being  a  diviner. 

ASPASIA    TO    PERICLES. 

I  will  (]()  none  (A  those  things  you  tell  me  to  do  ;  but  I 
will  say  something  you  forgot  to  say,  about  the  insufficiency 
of  Phidias. 

He  may  represent  a  hero  with  unbent  brows,  a  sage  with 
the  lyre  of  Poetry  in  his  hand.  Ambition  witii  her  face  half- 
averted  from  the  City,  but  he  cannot  represent,  in  the  same 
sculpture,  at  the  same  distance,  Aphrodite  higher  than 
Pallas.  He  would  be  derided  if  he  did  ;  and  a  great  man 
can  never  do  that  for  which  a  little  man  may  deride  him. 


PERICLES   AM)   ASP  ASIA.  201 

I  shall  love  you  even  more  than  I  do,  if  you  will  love 
yourself  more  than  me.  Did  ever  lover  talk  so  ?  Pray  tell 
me,  for  I  have  forgotten  all  they  ever  talked  about.  But, 
Pericles  !  Pericles  !  be  careful  to  lose  nothing  of  your  glory, 
or  you  lose  all  that  can  be  lost  of  me ;  my  pride,  my  happi- 
ness, my  content  ;  everything  but  my  poor  weak  love.  Keep 
glory,  then,  for  my  sake  ! 

PERICLES    TO    ASPASIA. 

Send  me  a  note  whenever  you  are  idle  and  thinking  of 
me,  dear  Aspasia  !  Send  it  always  by  some  old  slave, 
ill-dressed.  The  people  will  think  it  a  petition,  or  some- 
thing as  good,  and  they  wall  be  sure  to  observe  the  pleasure 
It  throws  into  my  countenance.  Two  winds  at  once  will 
blow  into  my  sails,  each  helping  me  onward. 

If  I  am  tired,  your  letter  will  refresh  me;  if  occupied,  it 
will  give  me  activity.  Beside,  what  a  deal  of  time  we  lose  in 
business  ! 

ASPASIA    TO    PERICLES. 

Would  to  heaven,  O  Pericles  !  you  had  no  business  at  all, 
but  the  conversation  of  your  friends.  V'ou  must  always  be 
the  greatest  man  in  the  city,  whoever  may  be  the  most 
popular.  I  wish  we  could  spend  the  whole  day  together  ; 
must  it  never  be  ?  Are  you  not  already  in  possession  of  all 
you  ever  contended  for  ? 

It  is  time,  methinks,  that  you  should  leave  off  speaking  in 
public,  for  you  begin  to  be  negligent  and  incorrect.  I  am  to 
write  you  a  note  whenever  I  am  idle  and  thinking  of  you  ! 

Pericles!  Pericles!  how  far  is  it  from  idleness  to  think  of 
you!     We  come  to  rest  before  we  come  to  idleness. 


202  rERICLES  AND   ASPASIA. 

PERICLES    TO    ASPASIA. 

In  our  republic  it  is  no  easy  thing  to  obtain  an  act  of 
divorce  from  power.  It  usually  is  delivered  to  us  by  the 
messenger  of  Death,  or  presented  in  due  form  by  our  judges 
where  the  oyster  keeps  open  house. 

Now,  oysters  are  quite  out  of  season  in  the  summer  of 
life ;  and  life,  just  about  this  time,  I  do  assure  you,  is  often 
worth  keeping.  I  thought  so  even  before  I  knew  you,  when 
I  thought  but  little  abcjut  the  matter.  It  is  a  casket  not 
precious  in  itself,  but  valuable  in  proportion  to  what  Fortune, 
or  Industry,  or  Virtue,  has  placed  within  it. 

CLEONE   TO    ASPASIA. 

We  have  kept  your  birthday,  Aspasia  !  On  these  occa- 
sions I  am  reluctant  to  write  anything.  Politeness,  I  think, 
and  humanity,  should  always  check  the  precipitancy  of 
congratulation.  Nobody  is  felicitated  on  losing.  Even  the 
loss  of  a  bracelet  or  tiara  is  deemed  no  subject  for  merriment 
and  alertness  in  our  friends  and  followers.  Surely  then  the 
marked  and  registered  loss  of  an  irreparable  year,  the  loss 
of  a  limb  of  life,  ought  to  excite  far  other  sensations.  So 
long  is  it,  O  Aspasia  !  since  we  have  read  any  poetry 
together,  I  am  f|uite  uncertain  whether  you  know  the  Ode  to 
Asteroessa. 

Asteroessa !  many  l)ring 

The  vows  of  verse  and  Ijlooms  of  spring 

To  crown  thy  natal  day. 
Lo,  my  vow  too  amid  the  rest  ! 
Ne'er  mayst  thou  sigh  from  that  white  breast, 

"  O  take  t/idvi  (ill  away  !  " 

For  there  are  cares  and  there  are  wrongs, 
And  withering  eyes  and  venom'd  tongues  ; 
They  now  are  far  behind  ; 


PERICLES  AND   ASPASIA.  203 

But  come  they  must :  and  every  year 
Some  flowers  decay,  some  thorns  appear, 
Whereof  these  gifts  remind. 

Cease,  raven,  cease  !  nor  scare  the  dove 
With  croak  around  and  swoop  above  ; 

Be  peace,  be  joy,  within  ! 
Of  all  that  hail  this  happy  tide 
My  verse  alone  be  cast  aside  ! 

Lyre,  cymbal,  dance,  begin  ! 

Although  there  must  be  some  myriads  of  odes  written  on 
the  same  occasion,  yet,  among  the  number  on  which  I  can 
lay  my  hand,  none  conveys  my  own  sentiment  so  completely. 

Sweetest  Aspasia,  live  on  !  live  on !  but  rather,  live  back 
the  past  ! 

ASPASIA    TO   CLEONE. 

In  ancient  nations  there  are  grand  repositories  of  wisdom, 
although  it  may  happen  that  little  of  it  is  doled  out  to  the 
exigencies  of  the  people.  There  is  more  in  the  fables  of 
v42sop  than  in  the  schools  of  our  Athenian  philosophers  ; 
there  is  more  in  the  laws  and  usages  of  Persia,  than  in 
the  greater  part  of  those  communities  which  are  loud  in 
denouncing  them  for  barbarism.  And  yet  there  are  some  that 
shock  me.  We  are  told  by  Herodotus,  who  tells  us  what- 
ever we  know  with  certainty  a  step  beyond  our  thresholds, 
that  a  boy  in  Persia  is  kept  in  the  apartments  of  the  women, 
and  prohibited  from  seeing  his  father,  until  the  fifth  year. 
The  reason  is,  he  informs  us,  that  if  he  dies  before  this  age, 
his  loss  may  give  the  parent  no  uneasiness.  And  such  a 
custom  he  thinks  commendable.  Herodotus  has  no  child, 
Cleone  !  Jf  he  had,  far  other  would  be  his  feelings  and  his 
judgment.  Before  that  age  how  many  seeds  are  sown, 
which  future  years,  and  distant  ones,  mature  successively  ! 
How  much  fondness,  how  much  generosity,  what  hosts  of 


204  PERICLES   AND    ASPASIA. 

Other  virtues,  courage,  constancy,  patriotism,  spring  into  the 
father's  heart  from  the  cradle  of  his  child  !  And  does  never 
the  fear  come  over  him,  that  what  is  most  precious  to  him 
upon  earth  is  left  in  careless  or  perfidious,  in  unsafe  or 
unworthy  hands  ?  Does  it  never  occur  to  him  that  he  loses 
a  son  in  every  one  of  these  five  years  ?  What  is  there  so 
affecting  to  the  brave  and  virtuous  man  as  that  which 
perpetually  wants  his  help  and  cannot  call  for  it !  What  is 
so  different  as  the  speaking  and  the  mute  !  And  hardly  less 
so  are  inarticulate  sounds,  and  sounds  which  he  receives 
half-formed,  and  which  he  delights  to  modulate,  and  which 
he  lays  with  infinite  care  and  patience,  not  only  on  the 
tender  attentive  ear,  but  on  the  half-open  lips,  and  on  the 
eyes,  and  on  the  cheeks  ;  as  if  they  all  were  listeners.  In 
every  child  there  are  many  children  ;  but  coming  forth  year 
after  year,  each  somewhat  like  and  somewhat  varying.  When 
they  are  grown  much  older,  the  leaves  (as  it  were)  lose  their 
pellucid  green,  the  branches  their  graceful  pliancy. 

Is  there  any  man  so  rich  in  happiness  that  he  can  afford 
to  throw  aside  these  first  five  years  ?  is  there  any  man  who 
can  hope  for  another  five  so  exuberant  in  unsating  joy  ? 

O  my  sweet  infant !  I  would  teach  thee  to  kneel  before 
the  gods,  were  it  only  to  thank  'em  for  being  Athenian  and 
not  Persian. 


PERICLES    TO    ASPASIA. 

I  am  pleased  with  your  little  note,  and  hope  you  may  live 
to  write  a  commentary  on  the  same  author.  You  speak 
with  your  usual  judgment,  in  commending  our  historian  for 
his  discretion  in  metaphors.  Not  indeed  that  his  language 
is  without  them,  but  they  are  rare,  impressive,  and  distinct. 
History  wants  them  occasionally;  in  oratory  they  are  nearly 
as  requisite  as  in  poetry  ;  they  come  opportunely  wherever 


PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA.  205 

the  object  is  persuasion  or  intimidation,  and  no  less  where 
delight  stands  foremost.  In  writing  a  letter  I  would  neither 
seek  nor  reject  one  ;  hut  1  think,  if  more  than  one  came 
forward,  I  might  decline  its  services.  If,  however,  it  had 
come  in  unawares,  I  would  take  no  trouble  to  send  it  away. 
But  we  should  accustom  ourselves  to  think  always  with 
propriety,  in  little  things  as  in  great,  and  neither  be  too 
solicitous  of  our  dress  in  the  house,  nor  negligent  because 
we  are  at  home.  I  think  it  as  improper  and  indecorous  to 
write  a  stupid  or  a  silly  note  to  you,  as  one  in  a  bad  hand  or 
on  coarse  paper.  Familiarity  ought  to  have  another  and 
worse  name,  when  it  relaxes  in  its  attentiveness  to  please. 

We  began  with  metaphors,  1  will  end  with  one.  —  Do  not 
look  back  over  the  letter  to  see  whether  I  have  not  already 
used  my  privilege  of  nomination,  whether  my  one  is  not 
there.  Take,  then,  a  simile  instead.  It  is  a  pity  that  they 
are  often  lamps  which  light  nothing,  and  show  only  the 
nakedness  of  the  walls  they  are  nailed  against. 

ASPA.SIA    TO    PERICLES. 

When  the  war  is  over,  as  surely  it  must  be  in  another 
year,  let  us  sail  among  the  islands  of  the  ^^ilgean,  and  be 
young  as  ever.  O  that  it  were  permitted  us  to  pass  together 
the  remainder  of  our  lives  in  privacy  and  retirement  !  This 
is  never  to  be  hoped  for  in  Athens. 

1  inherit  from  my  mother  a  small  yet  beautiful  house  in 
Tenos  :  I  remember  it  well.  Water,  clear  and  cold,  ran 
before  the  vestibule  ;  a  sycamore  shaded  the  whole  building. 
1  think  Tenos  must  be  nearer  to  Athens  than  to  Miletus. 
Could  we  not  go  now  for  a  few  days  ?  How  temperate  was 
the  air,  how  serene  the  sky,  how  beautiful  the  country !  the 
people  how  quiet,  how  gentle,  how  kind-hearted  ! 

Is  there  any  station  so  happy  as  an  uncontested  place  in 
a  small  community,  where  manners  are  simple,  where  wants 


206  PERICLES  AND   ASP  ASIA. 

are  few,  where  respect  is  the  tribute  of  probity,  and  love  is 
the  guerdon  of  beneficence  !  O  Pericles  !  let  us  go  ;  we  can 
return  at  any  time. 

ANAXAGORAS    TO    ASPASIA. 

Be  cautious,  O  Aspasia  !  of  discoursing  on  philosophy. 
Is  it  not  in  philosophy  as  in  love  ?  the  more  we  have  of  it, 
and  the  less  we  talk  about  it,  the  better.  Never  touch  upon 
religion  with  anybody.  The  irreligious  are  incurable  and 
insensible  ;  the  religious  are  morbid  and  irritable  :  the 
former  would  scorn,  the  latter  would  strangle  you.  It 
appears  to  me  to  be  not  only  a  dangerous,  but,  what  is 
worse,  an  indelicate  thing,  to  place  ourselves  where  we  are 
likely  to  see  fevers  and  frenzies,  writhings  and  distortions, 
debilities  and  deformities.  Religion  at  Athens  is  like  a 
fountain  near  Dodona,  which  extinguishes  a  lighted  torch, 
and  which  gives  a  flame  of  its  own  to  an  unlighted  one  held 
down  to  it.  Keep  yours  in  your  chamber  ;  and  let  the 
people  run  about  with  theirs  ;  but  remember,  it  is  rather  apt 
to  catch  the  skirts.  Believe  me,  I  am  happy  :  I  am  not 
deprived  of  my  friends.  Imagination  is  little  less  strong  in 
our  later  years  than  in  our  earlier.  True,  it  alights  on  fewer 
objects,  but  it  rests  longer  on  them,  and  sees  them  better. 
Pericles  first,  and  then  you,  and  then  Meton,  occupy  my 
thoughts.  I  am  with  you  still  ;  I  study  with  you,  just  as 
before,  altliough  nobody  talks  aloud  in  tiie  school-room. 

This  is  the  pleasantest  part  of  life.  Oblivion  throws  her 
light  coverlet  over  our  infancy;  and,  soon  after  we  are  out 
of  the  cradle  we  forget  how  soundly  we  had  been  slumber- 
ing, and  how  delightful  were  our  dreams.  Toil  and  pleasure 
contend  for  us  almost  the  instant  we  rise  from  it ;  and 
weariness  follows  whichever  has  carried  us  away.  We  stop 
awhile,  look  around  us,  wonder  to  find  we  have  completed 
the  circle  of  existence,  fold  our  arms,  and  fall  asleep  again. 


PERICLES  AND   ASTASIA.  207 

ASPASIA    TO    CLEONE. 

A  pestilence  has  broken  out  in  the  city,  so  virulent  in  its 
character,  so  rapid  in  its  progress,  so  intractable  to  medicine, 
that  Pericles,  in  despite  of  my  remonstrances  and  prayers, 
insisted  on  my  departure.  He  told  me  that,  if  I  delayed  it 
a  single  day,  his  inlluence  might  be  insufficient  to  obtain  me 
a  reception  in  any  town,  or  any  hamlet,  throughout  the 
whole  of  Greece.  He  has  promised  to  write  to  me  daily, 
but  he  declared  he  could  not  assure  me  that  his  letters  would 
come  regularly,  although  he  purposes  to  send  them  secretly 
by  the  shepherds,  fumigated  and  dipped  in  oil  before  they 
depart  from  Athens.  He  has  several  farms  in  Thessaly 
under  Mount  Ossa,  near  Sicurion.  Here  I  am,  a  few 
stadions  from  the  walls.  Never  did  I  breathe  so  pure  an 
air,  so  refreshing  in  the  midst  of  summer.  And  the  lips  of 
my  little  Pericles  are  ruddier  and  softer  and  sweeter  than 
before.  Nothing  is  wanting,  but  that  he  were  less  like  me 
and  more  like  his  father.  He  would  have  all  my  thoughts 
to  himself,  were  Pericles  not  absent. 

ASPASIA    TO    PERICLES. 

Now  the  fever  is  raging,  and  we  are  separated,  my  comfort 
and  delight  is  in  our  little  Pericles.  The  letters  you  send 
me  come  less  frequently,  but  I  know  you  write  whenever 
your  duties  will  allow  you,  and  whenever  men  are  found 
courageous  enough  to  take  charge  of  them.  Although  you 
preserved  with  little  care  the  speeches  you  delivered  for- 
merly, yet  you  promised  me  a  copy  of  the  latter,  and  as 
many  of  the  earlier  as  you  could  collect  among  your  friends. 
Let  me  have  them  as  soon  as  possible.  Whatever  bears  the 
traces  of  your  hand  is  precious  to  me  :  how^  greatly  more 
precious  what  is  imprest  with  your  genius,  what  you  have 
meditated  and   spoken  !      I   shall   see  your  calm   thoughtful 


208  PERICLES   AA'D    ASTASIA. 

face  while  I  am  reading,  and  will  be  cautious  not  to  read 
aloud  lest  I  lose  the  illusion  of  your  voice. 

PERICLES    TO    ASPASIA. 

Aspiisia  !  do  you  know  what  you  have  asked  of  me  ? 
Would  you  accept  it,  if  you  thought  it  might  make  you  love 
me  less  ?  Must  your  affections  be  thus  loosened  from  me, 
that  the  separation,  which  the  pestilence  may  render  an 
eternal  one,  may  be  somewhat  mitigated  ?  I  send  you  the 
papers.  The  value  will  be  small  to  you,  and  indeed  would 
be  small  to  others,  were  it  possible  that  they  could  fall  into 
any  hands  but  yours.  Remember  the  situation  in  which  my 
birth  and  breeding  and  bent  of  mind  have  placed  me  ; 
remember  the  powerful  rivals  I  have  had  to  contend  with, 
their  celebrity,  their  popularity,  their  genius,  and  their 
perseverance.  You  know  how  often  I  have  regretted  the 
necessitv  of  obtaining  the  banishment  of  Cimon,  a  man 
more  similar  to  myself  than  any  other.  I  doubt  whether  he 
had  quite  the  same  management  of  his  thoughts  and  words, 
but  he  was  adorned  with  every  grace,  every  virtue,  and 
invested  by  Nature  with  every  high  function  of  the  soul. 
We  happened  to  be  placed  by  our  fellow-citizens  at  the 
head  of  two  adverse  factions.  Son  of  the  greatest  man  in 
our  annals,  he  was  courted  and  promoted  by  the  aristocracy  ; 
I,  of  a  family  no  less  distinguished,  was  opposed  to  him  by 
the  body  of  the  people.  You  must  have  observed,  Aspasia, 
that  although  one  of  the  populace  may  in  turbulent  times  be 
the  possessor  of  great  power,  it  rarely  has  happened  that  he 
retained  it  long,  or  without  many  sanguinary  struggles. 
Moroseness  is  the  evening  of  turbulence.  Every  man  after 
a  while  begins  to  think  himself  as  capable  of  governing  as 
one  (whoever  he  may  be)  taken  from,  his  own  rank.  Amid 
all   the  claims  and   pretensions  of  the  ignorant  and  discon- 


PERICLES   AXD   AS  PAST  A.  209 

*  tented,  the  eyes  of  a  few  begin  to  be  turned  complacently 

toward  the  more  courteous  demeanour  of  some  well-born 
citizen,  who  presently  has  an  opportunity  of  conciliating 
many  more,  by  affability,  liberality,  eloquence,  commisera- 
tion, diffidence,  and  disinterestedness.  Part  of  these  must 
be  real,  part  may  not  be.  Shortly  afterward  he  gains  nearly 
all  the  rest  of  the  citizens  by  deserting  his  order  for  theirs : 
his  own  party  will  not  be  left  behind,  but  adheres  to  him 
bravely,  to  prove  they  are  not  ashamed  of  their  choice,  and 
to  avoid  the  imputation  of  inconsistency. 

Aspasia  !  I  have  done  with  these  cares,  with  these  reflec- 
tions. Little  of  life  is  remaining,  but  my  happiness  will  be 
coetaneous  with  it,  and  my  renown  will  survive  it ;  for  there 
is  no  example  of  any  who  has  governed  a  state  so  long, 
without  a  single  act  of  revenge  or  malice,  of  cruelty  or 
severity.  In  the  thirty-seven  years  of  my  administration  I 
have  caused  no  citizen  to  put  on  mourning.  On  this  rock, 
O  Aspasia  !  stand  my  Propykxa  and  my  Parthenon. 

ASPASIA    TO    PERICLES. 

Gratitude  to  the  immortal  gods  overpowers  every  other 
impulse  of  my  breast.     You  are  safe. 

Pericles  !  O  my  Pericles  !  come  into  this  purer  air !  live 
life  over  again  in  the  smiles  of  your  child,  in  the  devotion  of 
your  Aspasia  !  Why  did  you  fear  for  me  the  plague  within 
the  city,  the  Spartans  round  it  ?  why  did  you  exact  the  vow 
at  parting,  that  nothing  but  your  command  should  recall  me 
again  to  Athens  ?  Why  did  I  ever  make  it  ?  Cruel  1  to 
refuse  me  the  full  enjoyment  of  your  recovered  health  ! 
crueller  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  its  decline  !  The 
happiest  of  pillows  is  not  that  which  Love  first  presses  ;  it  is 
that  which  Death  has  frowned  on  and  passed  over. 


210  PERICLES   AND   ASTASIA. 

ASPASIA    TO    CLEONE. 

Where  on  earth  is  there  so  much  society  as  in  a  beloved 
child  ?  He  accompanies  me  in  my  walks,  gazes  into  my 
eyes  for  what  1  am  gathering  from  books,  tells  me  more  and 
better  things  than  they  do,  and  asks  me  often  what  neither  I 
nor  they  can  answer.  When  he  is  absent  I  am  filled  with 
reflections  ;  when  he  is  present  I  have  room  for  none  beside 
what  I  receive  from  him.  The  charms  of  his  childhood 
bring  me  back  to  the  delights  of  mine,  and  I  fancy  I  hear  my 
own  words  in  a  sweeter  voice.  Will  he  (O  how  I  tremble  at 
the  mute  oracle  of  futurity  !  ),  will  he  ever  be  as  happy  as  I 
have  been  t  Alas  !  and  must  he  ever  be  as  subject  to  fears 
and  apprehensions. -*  No  ;  thanks  to  the  gods  !  never,  never. 
He  carries  his  father's  heart  within  his  breast  :  I  see  him 
already  an  orator  and  a  leader.  I  try  to  teach  him  daily 
some  of  his  father's  looks  and  gestures,  and  I  never  smile 
but  at  his  docility  and  gravity.  How  his  father  will  love 
him  !  the  little  thunderer  !  the  winner  of  cities !  the  van- 
quisher of  Cleones  ! 

ASPASIA    TO    rRKlCLES. 

Never  tell  me,  O  my  Pericles  !  that  you  are  suddenly 
changed  in  appearance.  May  every  change  of  your  figure 
and  countenance  be  gradual,  so  that  I  shall  not  perceive  it; 
but  if  you  really  are  altered  to  such  a  degree  as  you  describe, 
I  must  transfer  my  affection  —  from  the  first  Pericles  to  the 
second.  Are  you  jealous  !  if  you  are,  it  is  I  who  am  to  be 
pitied,  whose  heart  is  destined  to  fly  from  the  one  to  the 
other  incessantly.  In  the  end  it  will  rest,  it  shall,  it  must, 
on  the  nearest.  I  would  write  a  longer  letter;  but  it  is  a  sad 
and  wearisome  thing  to  aim  at  playfulness  where  the  hand  is 
palsied  by  affliction.      I5e  well  ;  and  all  is  well  :  be  happy; 


PERICLES   AND   ASP  ASIA.  211 

and  Athens  rises  up  again,  alert,  and  blooming,  and  vigourous, 
from  between  war  and  pestilence.  Love  me  :  for  love  cures 
all  but  love.  How  can  we  fear  to  die,  how  can  we  die, 
while  we  cling  or  are  clung  to  the  beloved  ? 

PERICLES    TO    ASPASIA. 

The  pestilence  has  taken  from  me  both  my  sons.  You, 
who  were  ever  so  kind  and  affectionate  to  them,  will  receive 
a  tardy  recompense,  in  hearing  that  the  least  gentle  and  the 
least  grateful  did  acknowledge  it. 

1  mourn  for  Paralos,  because  he  loved  me  ;  for  Xanthip- 
pos,  because  he  loved  me  not. 

Preserve  with  all  your  maternal  care  our  little  Pericles.  I 
cannot  be  fonder  of  him  than  I  have  always  been  ;  I  can 
only  fear  more  for  him. 

Is  he  not  with  my  Aspasia  !  What  fears  then  are  so 
irrational  as  mine .''  But  oh  !  I  am  living  in  a  widowed 
house,  a  house  of  desolation  ;  I  am  living  in  a  city  of  tombs 
and  torches ;  and  the  last  I  saw  before  me  were  for  my 
children. 

PERICLES    TO  ASPASIA. 

It  is  right  and  orderly,  that  he  who  has  partaken  so  largely 
in  the  prosperity  of  the  Athenians,  should  close  the  pro- 
cession of  their  calamities.  The  fever  that  has  depopulated 
our  city,  returned  upon  me  last  night,  and  Hippocrates  and 
Acron  tell  me  that  my  end  is  near. 

When  we  agreed,  O  Aspasia  !  in  the  beginning  of  our 
loves,  to  communicate  our  thoughts  by  writing,  even  while 
we  were  both  in  Athens,  and  when  we  had  many  reasons  for 
it,  we  little  foresaw  the  more  powerful  one  that  has  rendered 
it  necessary  of  late.  We  never  can  meet  again  :  the  laws 
forbid  it,  and   love   itself  enforces   them.     Let   wisdom  be 


212  PERICLES  AND   ASPASIA. 

heard  by  you  as  imperturbably,  and  affection  as  authorita- 
tively, as  ever  ;  and  remember  that  the  sorrow  of  Pericles 
can  arise  but  from  the  bosom  of  Aspasia.  There  is  only 
one  word  of  tenderness  we  could  say,  which  we  have  not 
said  oftentimes  before  ;  and  there  is  no  consolation  in  it. 
The  happy  never  say,  and  never  hear  said,  farewell. 

Reviewing  the  course  of  my  life,  it  appears  to  me  at  one 
moment  as  if  we  met  but  yesterday ;  at  another  as  if  cen- 
turies had  passed  within  it ;  for  within  it  have  existed  the 
greater  part  of  those  who,  since  the  origin  of  the  world,  have 
been  the  luminaries  of  the  human  race.  Damon  called  me 
from  my  music  to  look  at  Aristides  on  his  way  to  exile ;  and 
my  father  pressed  the  wrist  by  which  he  was  leading  me 
along,  and  whispered  in  my  ear  : 

"Walk  quickly  by;  glance  cautiously;  it  is  there  Miltiades 
is  in  prison." 

In  my  boyhood  Pindar  took  me  up  in  his  arms,  when  he 
brought  to  our  house  the  dirge  he  had  composed  for  the 
funeral  of  my  grandfather  ;  in  my  adolescence  I  offered  the 
rites  of  hospitality  to  Empedocles ;  not  long  afterward  I 
embraced  the  neck  of  ^:schylus,  about  to  abandon  his 
country.  With  Sophocles  I  have  argued  on  eloquence  ;  with 
Euripides  on  polity  and  ethics  ;  I  have  discoursed,  as 
became  an  inquirer,  with  Protagoras  and  Democritus,  with 
Anaxagoras  and  Meton.  From  Herodotus  I  have  listened 
to  the  most  instructive  history,  conveyed  in  a  language  the 
most  copious  and  the  most  harmonious  ;  a  man  worthy  to 
carry  away  the  collected  suffrages  of  universal  Greece ;  a 
man  worthy  to  throw  open  the  temples  of  Egypt,  and  to 
celebrate  the  exploits  of  Cyrus.  And  from  'I'hucydides,  who 
alone  can  succeed  to  him,  how  recently  did  my  Aspasia  heat 
with  me  the  energetic  praises  of  his  just  supremacy ! 

As  if  the  festival  of  life  were  incomplete,  and  wanted  one 
great  ornament  to  crown   it,   Phidias  placed   before    us,  in 


PERICLES  AND   ASTASIA.  213 

ivory  and  gold,  the  tutelary  Deity  of  this  land,  and  the  Zeus 
of  Homer  and  Olympus. 

To  have  lived  with  such  men,  to  have  enjoyed  their 
familiarity  and  esteem,  overpays  all  labours  and  anxieties. 
1  were  unworthy  of  the  friendships  I  have  commemorated, 
were  I  forgetful  of  the  latest.  Sacred  it  ought  to  be,  formed 
as  it  was  under  the  portico  of  Death,  my  friendship  with  the 
most  sagacious,  the  most  scientific,  the  most  beneficent  of 
philosophers,  Acron  and  Hippocrates.  If  mortal  could  war 
against  Pestilence  and  Destiny,  they  had  been  victorious. 
I  leave  them  in  the  field  :  unfortunate  he  who  finds  them 
among  the  fallen  ! 

And  now,  at  the  close  of  my  day,  when  every  light  is  dim 
and  every  guest  departed,  let  me  own  that  these  wane  before 
me,  remembering,  as  I  do  in  the  pride  and  fulness  of  my 
heart,  that  Athens  confided  her  glory,  and  Aspasia  her 
happiness,  to  me. 

Have  I  been  a  faithful  guardian  }  do  I  resign  them  to  the 
custody  of  the  gods  undiminished  and  unimpaired  ?  Welcome 
then,  welcome,  my  last  hour  !  After  enjoying  for  so  great 
a  number  of  years,  in  my  public  and  my  private  life,  what  I 
believe  has  never  been  the  lot  of  any  other,  I  now  extend 
my  hand  to  the  urn^  and  take  without  reluctance  or  hesitation 
what  is  the  lot  of  all. 


HELLENICS. 


XXX. 

THE  HAMADRYAD. 

Rhaicos  was  born  amid  the  hills  wherefrom 
Gnidos  the  light  of  Caria  is  discern 'd, 
And  small  are  the  white-crested  that  play  near, 
And  smaller  onward  are  the  purple  waves. 
Thence  festal  choirs  were  visible,  all  crown'd 
With  rose  and  myrtle  if  they  were  inborn; 
If  from  Pandion  sprang  they,  on  the  coast 
Where  stern  Athene  rais'd  her  citadel, 
Then  olive  was  entwined  with  violets 
Cluster'd  in  bosses,  regular  and  large; 
For  various  men  wore  various  coronals, 
But  one  was  their  devotion;  'twas  to  her 
Whose  laws  all  follow,  her  whose  smile  withdraws 
The  sword  from  Ares,  thunderbolt  from  Zeus, 
And  whom  in  his  chill  caves  the  mutable 
Of  mind,  Poseidon,  the  sea-king,  reveres. 
And  whom  his  brother,  stubborn  T)is,  hath  pray'd 
To  turn  in  pity  the  averted  cheek 
Of  her  he  bore  away,  with  promises. 
Nay,  with  loud  oath  before  dread  Styx  itself. 
To  give  her  daily  more  and  sweeter  flowers 
Than  he  made  droj)  from  her  on  Enna's  dell. 
Rhaicos  was  looking  from  his  father's  door 
At  the  long  trains  that  hastened  to  the  town 


216  HELLENICS. 

From  all  the  valleys,  like  bright  rivulets 
Gurgling  with  gladness,  wave  outrunning  wave, 
And  thought  it  hard  he  might  not  also  go 
And  offer  up  one  prayer,  and  press  one  hand, 
He  knew  not  whose.     The  father  call'd  him  in 
And  said,  "  Son  Rhaic9s!  those  are  idle  games; 
Long  enough  I  have  lived  to  find  them  so." 
And  ere  he  ended,  sighed;  as  old  men  do 
Always,  to  think  how  idle  such  games  are. 
"  I  have  not  yet,"  thought  Rhaicos  in  his  heart. 
And  wanted  proof. 

"  Suppose  thou  go  and  help 
Echion  at  the  hill,  to  bark  yon  oak 
And  lop  its  branches  off,  before  we  delve 
About  the  trunk  and  ply  the  root  with  axe : 
This  we  may  do  in  winter." 

Rhaicos  went; 
For  thence  he  could  see  farther,  and  see  more 
Of  those  who  hurried  to  the  city-gate. 
Echion  he  found  there,  with  naked  arm 
Swart-hair'd,  strong-sinew'd,  and  his  eyes  intent 
Upon  the  place  where  first  the  axe  should  fall : 
He  held  it  upright.     "  There  are  bees  about. 
Or  wasps,  or  hornets,"  said  the  cautious  eld, 
"  Look  sharp,  O  son  of  Thallinos  !  "     The  youth 
Inclined  his  ear,  afar,  and  warily. 
And  cavern'd  in  his  hand.      He  heard  a  buzz 
At  first,  and  then  the  sound  grew  soft  and  clear, 
And  then  divided  into  what  seem'd  tune. 
And  there  were  words  upon  it,  plaintive  words. 
He  turn'd,  and  said,  "Pxhion!  do  not  strike 
That  tree:  it  must  be  hollow  ;  for  some  god 
Speaks  from  within.     Come  thyself  near."     Again 
Both  turn'd  toward  it:  and  behold!  there  sat 


THE   HAMADRYAD.  217 

Upon  the  moss  below,  with  her  two  pahns 

Pressing  it,  on  each  side,  a  maid  in  form. 

Downcast  were  her  long  eyelashes,  and  pale 

Her  cheek,  but  never  mountain-ash  display'd 

Berries  of  colour  like  her  lip  so  pure, 

Nor  were  the  anemones  about  her  hair 

Soft,  smooth,  and  wavering  like  the  face  beneath. 

"What  dost  thou  here.?"  Echion,  half-afraid. 
Half-angry  cried.     She  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
But  nothing  spake  she.      Rhaicos  drew  one  step 
Backward,  for  fear  came  likewise  over  him. 
But  not  such  fear  :  he  panted,  gasp'd,  drew  in 
His  breath,  and  would  have  turn'd  it  into  words, 
But  could  not  into  one. 

"O  send  away 
That  sad  old  man!  "  said  she.     The  old  man  went 
Without  a  warning  from  his  master's  son. 
Glad  to  escape,  for  sorely  he  now  fear'd, 
And  the  axe  shone  behind  him  in  their  eyes. 

Hamad.       And    wouldst    thou    too    shed    the    most 
innocent 
Of  blood  .-'     No  vow  demands  it;  no  god  wills 
The  oak  to  bleed. 

Rhaicos.     Who  art  thou.?  whence?  why  here? 
And  whither  wouldst  thou  go  ?     Among  the  robed 
In  white  or  saffron,  or  the  hue  that  most 
Resembles  dawn  or  the  clear  sky,  is  none 
Array'd  as  thou  art.     What  so  beautiful 
As  that  gray  robe  which  clings  about  thee  close, 
Like  moss  to  stones  adhering,  leaves  to  trees. 
Yet  lets  thy  bosom  rise  and  fall  in  turn. 
As,  touch'd  by  zephyrs,  fall  and  rise  the  boughs 
Of  graceful  platan  by  the  river-side  ? 

Hajnad.     Lovest  thou  well  thy  father's  house? 


218  HELLENICS. 

Rhaicos.  Indeed 

I  love  it,  well  I  love  it,  yet  would  leave 
For  thine,  where'er  it  be,  my  father's  house, 
With  all  the  marks  upon  the  door,  that  show 
My  growth  at  every  birthday  since  the  third. 
And  all  the  charms,  o'erpowering  evil  eyes, 
My  mother  nail'd  for  me  against  my  bed, 
And  the  Cydonian  bow  (which  thou  shalt  see) 
Won  in  my  race  last  spring  from  Eutychos. 

Hamad.     Bethink  thee  what  it  is  to  leave  a  home 
Thou  never  yet  hast  left,  one  night,  one  day. 

Rhaicos.     No,  't  is  not  hard  to  leave  it:  't  is  not  hard 
To  leave,  O  maiden,  tli^t  paternal  home 
If  there  be  one  on  earth  whom  we  may  love 
First,  last,  for  ever;  one  who  says  that  she 
Will  love  for  ever  too.     To  say  which  word. 
Only  to  say  it,  surely  is  enough. 
It  shows  such  kindness  —  if  't  were  possible 
We  at  the  moment  think  she  would  indeed. 

Hainad.     Who  taught  thee  all  this  folly  at  thy  age  ? 

Rhaicos.      I  have  seen  lovers  and  have  learnt  to  love. 

Hamad.     I'ut  wilt  thou  spare  the  tree? 

Rhaicos.  My  father  wants 

The  bark;  the  tree  may  hold  its  place  awhile. 

Hamad.     Awhile  ?  thy  father  numbers  then  my  days  ? 

Rhaicos.     Are  there  no  others  where  the  moss  beneath 
Is  quite  as  tufty  ?    Who  would  send  thee  forth 
Or  ask  thee  why  thou  tarriest  ?    Is  thy  flock 
Anywhere  near  ? 

Haffiad.  J  have  no  flock:  1  kill 

Nothing  that  breathes,  that  stirs,  that  feels  the  air, 
The  sun,  the  dew.     Why  should  the  beautiful 
CAnd  thou  art  beautiful)  disturb  the  source 
Whence  springs  all  beauty?    Hast  thou  never  heard 


THE   HAMADRYAD.  219 

Of  Hamadryads? 

Rhaicos.  Heard  of  them  I  have: 

Tell  me  some  tale  about  them.     May  I  sit 
Beside  thy  feet  ?     Art  thou  not  tired  ?     The  herbs 
Are  very  soft;  I  will  not  come  too  nigh; 
Do  but  sit  there,  nor  tremble  so,  nor  doubt. 
Stay,  stay  an  instant:  let  me  first  explore 
If  any  acorn  of  last  year  be  left 
Within  it;  thy  thin  robe  too  ill  protects 
Thy  dainty  limbs  against  the  harm  one  small 
Acorn  may  do.     Here  's  none.     Another  day 
Trust  me;  till  then  let  me  sit  opposite. 

Hamad.     I  seat  me;  be  thou  seated,  and  content. 

Rhaicos.     O  sight  for  gods!  ye  men  below!  adore 
The  Aphrodite.     Is  she  there  below } 
Or  sits  she  here  before  me  1  as  she  sate 
Before  the  shepherd  on  those  heights  that  shade 
The  Hellespont,  and  brought  his  kindred  woe. 

Hamad.     Reverence  the   higher  Powers;    nor  deem 
amiss 
Of  her  who  pleads  to  thee,  and  would  repay — 
Ask  not  how  much — but  very  much.     Rise  not: 
No,  Rhaicos,  no!     Without  the  nuptial  vow 
Love  is  unholy.     Swear  to  me  that  none 
Of  mortal  maids  shall  ever  taste  thy  kiss, 
Then  take  thou  mine;  then  take  it,  not  before. 

Rhaicos.     Hearken,  all  gods  above!     O  Aphrodite  ! 
O  Here!     Let  my  vow  be  ratified! 
But  wilt  thou  come  into  my  father's  house  .? 

Hamad.      Nay:  and  of  mine  I  cannot  give  thee  part. 

Rhaicos.     \\'here  is  it  ? 

Hamad.  In  this  oak. 

Rhaicos.  Ay  ;  now  begins 

The  tale  of  Hamadryad:  tell  it  through. 


220  HELLENICS. 

Hamad.     Pray  of  thy  father  never  to  cut  down 
My  tree ;  and  promise  him,  as  well  thou  mayst, 
That  every  year  he  shall  receive  from  me 
More  honey  than  will  buy  him  nine  fat  sheep, 
More  wax  than  he  will  burn  to  all  the  gods. 
Why  fallest  thou  upon  thy  face  ?     Some  thorn 
May  scratch  it,  rash  young  man!     Rise  up;  for  shame! 

Rhaicos.     Yox  shame  I  cannot  rise.     O  pity  me! 
I  dare  not  sue  for  love — but  do  not  hate! 
Let  me  once  more  behold  thee  —  not  once  more. 
But  many  days:  let  me  love  on  — unloved! 
I  aimed  too  high  :  on  my  own  head  the  bolt 
Falls  back,  and  pierces  to  the  very  brain. 

Hamad.     Go — rather  go,  than  make  me  say  I  love. 

Rhaicos.     If  happiness  is  immortality, 
(And  whence  enjoy  it  else  the  gods  above  ?) 
I  am  immortal  too:  my  vow  is  heard  — 
Hark!  on  the  left  —  Nay,  turn  not  from  me  now, 
I  claim  my  kiss. 

Hamad.  Do  men  take  first,  then  claim  .^ 

Do  thus  the  seasons  run  their  course  with  them  t 

Her  lips  were  seal'd;  her  head  sank  on  his  breast. 
'T  is  said  that  laughs  were  heard  within  the  wood: 
But  who  should  hear  them  ?  and  whose  laughs?  and  why? 

Savoury  was  the  smell  and  long  past  noon, 
Thallinos!  in  thy  house;  for  marjoram, 
Basil  and  mint,  and  thyme  and  rosemary, 
Were  sprinkled  on  the  kid's  well  roasted  length. 
Awaiting  Rhaicos.      Home  he  came  at  last, 
Not  hungry,  but  pretending  hunger  keen. 
With  head  and  eyes  just  o'er  the  maple  plate. 
"  Thou  seest  but  badly,  coming  from  the  sun, 
Boy  Rhaicos  !  "  said  the  father.     "That  oak's  bark 


THE  HAMADRYAD.  11\ 

Must  have  been  tough,  with  Httle  sap  between  ; 
It  ought  to  run;  but  it  and  I  are  old." 
Rhaicos,  although  each  morsel  of  the  bread 
Increased  by  chewing,  and  the  meat  grew  cold 
And  tasteless  to  his  palate,  took  a  draught 
Of  gold-bright  wine,  which,  thirsty  as  he  was. 
He  thought  not  of,  until  his  father  fill'd 
The  cup,  averring  water  was  amiss. 
But  wine  had  been  at  all  times  pour'd  on  kid. 
It  was  religion. 

He  thus  fortified 
Said,  not  quite  boldly,  and  not  quite  abash'd, 
"Father,  that  oak  is  Zeus's  own;  that  oak 
Year  after  year  will  bring  thee  wealth  from  wax 
And  honey.     There  is  one  who  fears  the  gods 
And  the  gods  love  —  that  one  " 

(He  blush'd,  nor  said 
What  one) 

"  Has  promised  this,  and  may  do  more. 
Thou  hast  not  many  moons  to  wait  until 
The  bees  have  done  their  best;  if  then  there  come 
Nor  wax  nor  honey,  let  the  tree  be  hewn." 

"Zeus  hath  bestow'd  on  thee  a  prudent  mind," 
Said  the  glad  sire  :  "  but  look  thou  often  there, 
And  gather  all  the  honey  thou  canst  find 
In  every  crevice,  over  and  above 
What  has  been  promised;  would  they  reckon  that.-'" 

Rhaicos  went  daily;  but  the  nymph  as  oft, 
Invisible.     To  play  at  love,  she  knew, 
Stopping  its  breathings  when  it  breathes  most  soft. 
Is  sweeter  than  to  play  on  any  pipe. 
She  play'd  on  his:  she  fed  upon  his  sighs; 
They  pleased  her  when  they  gently  waved  her  hair, 
Cooling  the  pulses  of  her  purple  veins, 


222  HELLENICS. 

And  when  her  absence  brought  them  out,  they  pleased. 

Even  among  the  fondest  of  them  all, 

What  mortal  or  immortal  maid  is  more 

Content  with  giving  happiness  than  pain  ? 

One  day  he  was  returning  from  the  wood 

Despondently.     She  pitied  him,  and  said 

"Come  back!  "  and  twined  her  fingers  in  the  hem 

Above  his  shoulder.     Then  she  led  his  steps 

To  a  cool  rill  that  ran  o'er  level  sand 

Through  lentisk  and  through  oleander,  there 

Bathed  she  his  feet,  lifting  them  on  her  lap 

When  bathed,  and  drying  them  in  both  her  hands. 

He  dared  complain;  for  those  who  most  are  loved 

Most  dare  it ;  but  not  harsh  was  his  complaint. 

"O  thou  inconstant!"  said  he,  "if  stern  law 

Bind  thee,  or  will,  stronger  than  sternest  law, 

O,  let  me  know  henceforward  when  to  hope 

The  fruit  of  love  that  grows  for  me  but  here." 

He  spake;  and  pluck'd  it  from  its  pliant  stem. 

"Impatient  Rhaicos  !     Wliy  thus  intercept 

The  answer  I  would  give  .''     There  is  a  bee  ' 

Whom  I  have  fed,  a  bee  who  knows  my  thoughts 

And  executes  my  wishes:  I  will  send 

That  messenger.     If  ever  thou  art  false. 

Drawn  by  another,  own  it  not,  but  drive 

My  bee  away:  then  shall  I  know  my  fate, 

And  —  for  ihrni  must  be  wretched  —  weep  at  thine. 

But  often  as  my  heart  persuades  to  lay 

Its  cares  on  thine  and  throb  itself  to  rest. 

Expect  her  with  thee,  whether  it  be  morn 

Or  eve,  at  any  time  when  woods  are  safe." 

Day  after  day  the  Hours  beheld  them  blest, 
And  season  after  season :  years  had  past, 
Blest  were  they  still.     He  who  asserts  that  Love 


THE  HAMADRYAD.  Ill 

Ever  is  sated  of  sweet  things,  tlie  same 
Sweet  things  he  fretted  for  in  earlier  days, 
Never,  by  Zeus!  lotfcd  he  a  Hamadryad. 

The  nights  had  now  grown  longer,  and  perhaps 
The  Hamadryads  find  them  lone  and  dull 
Among  their  woods  ;  one  did,  alas  !     She  called 
Her  faithful  bee :  't  was  when  all  bees  should  sleep, 
And  all  did  sleep  but  hers.     She  was  sent  forth 
To  bring  that  light  which  never  wintry  blast 
Blows  out,  nor  rain  nor  snow  extinguishes. 
The  light  that  shines  from  loving  eyes  upon 
Eyes  that  love  back,  till  they  can  see  no  more. 
Rhaicos  was  sitting  at  his  father's  hearth  : 
Between  them  stood  the  table,  not  o'erspread 
With  fruits  which  autumn  now  profusely  bore. 
Nor  anise  cakes,  nor  odorous  wine;  but  there 
The  draft-board  was  expanded;  at  which  game 
Triumphant  sat  old  Thallinos;  the  son 
Was  puzzled,  vex'd,  discomfited,  distraught. 
A  buzz  was  at  his  ear:  up  went  his  hand 
And  it  was  heard  no  longer.     The  poor  bee 
Return'd  (but  not  until  the  morn  shone  bright) 
And  found  the  Hamadryad  with  her  head 
Upon  her  aching  wrist,  and  show'd  one  wing 
Half-broken  off,  the  other's  meshes  marr'd. 
And  there  were  bruises  which  no  eye  could  see 
Saving  a  Hamadryad's. 

At  this  sight 
Down  fell  the  languid  brow,  both  hands  fell  down. 
A  shriek  was  carried  to  the  ancient  hall 
Of  Thallinos  :  he  heard  it  not :  his  son 
Heard  it,  and  ran  forthwith  into  the  wood. 
No  bark  was  on  the  tree,  no  leaf  was  green, 
The  trunk  was  riven  through.     From  that  day  forth 


224  HELLENICS. 

Nor  word  nor  whisper  sooth'd  his  ear,  nor  sound 
Even  of  insect  wing ;  but  loud  laments 
The  woodmen  and  the  shephards  one  long  year 
Heard  day  and  night;  for  Rhaicos  would  not  quit 
The  solitary  place,  but  moan'd  and  died. 

Hence  milk  and  honey  wonder  not,  O  guest, 
To  find  set  duly  on  the  hollow  stone. 

XXXI. 

ACON  AND  RHODOrii;    OR,  INCONSTANCY, 
(/f  Sequel^ 

The  Year's  twelve  daughters  had  in  turn  gone  by, 
Of  measured  pace  though  varying  mien  all  twelve, 
Some  froward,  some  sedater,  some  adorn'd 
For  festival,  some  reckless  of  attire. 
The  snow  had  left  the  mountain-top-;  fresh  flowers 
Had  withered  in  the  meadow  ;  fig  and  prune 
Hung  wrinkling ;  the  last  apple  glow'd  amid 
Its  freckled  leaves;  and  weary  oxen  blink'd 
Between  the  trodden  corn  and  twisted  vine. 
Under  whose  bunches  stood  the  empty  crate. 
To  creak  ere  long  beneath  them  carried  home. 
This  was  the  season  when  twelve  months  before, 
O  gentle  Hamadryad,  true  to  love  ! 
Thy  mansion,  thy  dim  mansion  in  the  wood 
Was  blasted  and  laid  desolate  :  but  none 
Dared  violate  its  precincts,  none  dared  pluck 
The  moss  beneath  it,  which  alone  remain'd 
Of  what  was  thine. 

Old  Thallinos  sat  mute 
In  solitary  sadness.     The  strange  tale 
(Not  until  Rhaicos  died,  but  then  the  whole) 


ACON  AND   RHODOPE.  225 

Echion  had  related,  whom  no  force 
Could  ever  make  look  back  upon  the  oaks. 
The  father  said,  "  Echion  !  thou  must  weigh. 
Carefully,  and  with  steady  hand,  enough 
(Although  no  longer  comes  the  store  as  once  !  ) 
Of  wax  to  burn  all  day  and  night  upon 
That  hollow  stone  where  milk  and  honey  lie  : 
So  may  the  gods,  so  may  the  dead,  be  pleas'd  !  " 
Thallinos  bore  it  thither  in  the  morn, 
And  lighted  it  and  left  it. 

First  of  those 
Who  visited  upon  this  solemn  day 
The  Hamadryad's  oak,  were  Rhodope 
And  Aeon  ;  of  one  age,  one  hope,  one  trust. 
Graceful  was  she  as  was  the  nymph  whose  fate 
She  sorrowed  for  :  he  slender,  pale,  and  first 
Lapp'd  by  the  flame  of  love  :  his  father's  lands 
Were  fertile,  herds  lowed  over  them  afar. 
Now  stood  the  two  aside  the  hollow  stone 
And  look'd  with  stedfast  eyes  toward  the  oak 
Shivered  and  black  and  bare. 

"  May  never  we 
Love  as  they  loved  !  "  said  Aeon.     She  at  this 
Smiled,  for  he  said  not  what  he  meant  to  say. 
And  thought  not  of  its  bliss,  but  of  its  end. 
He  caught  the  flying  smile,  and  blush'd,  and  vow'd 
Nor  time  nor  other  power,  whereto  the  might 
Of  love  hath  yielded  and  may  yield  again, 
Should  alter  his. 

The  father  of  the  youth 
Wanted  not  beauty  for  him,  wanted  not 
Song,  that  could  lift  earth's  weight  from  off  his  heart, 
Discretion,  that  could  guide  him  thro'  the  world, 
Innocence,  that  could  clear  his  way  to  heaven  ; 


226  HELLENICS. 

Silver  and  gold  and  land,  not  green  before 
The  ancestral  gate,  but  purple  under  skies 
Bending  far  off,  he  wanted  for  his  heir. 

Fathers  have  given  life,  but  virgin  heart 
They  never  gave  ;  and  dare  they  then  control 
Or  check  it  harshly  ?  dare  they  break  a  bond 
Girt  round  it  by  the  holiest  Power  on  high  ? 

Aeon  was  grieved,  he  said,  grieved  bitterly, 
But  Aeon  had  complied  —  't  was  dutiful  ! 

Crush  thy  own  heart,  Man  !   Man  !  but  fear  to  wound 
The  gentler,  that  relies  on  thee  alone, 
By  thee  created,  weak  or  strong  by  thee  ; 
Touch  it  not  but  for  worship  ;  watch  before 
Its  sanctuary  ;  nor  leave  it  till  are  closed 
The  temple  doors  and  the  last  lamp  is  spent. 

Rhodope,  in  her  soul's  waste  solitude, 
Sate  mournful  by  the  dull-resounding  sea, 
Often  not  hearing  it,  and  many  tears 
Had  the  cold  breezes  hardened  on  her  cheek. 

Meanwhile  he  sauntered  in  the  wood  of  oaks, 
Nor  shunn'd  to  look  upon  the  hollow  stone 
That  held  the  milk  and  honey,  nor  to  lay 
His  plighted  hand  where  recently  'twas  laid 
Opposite  hers,  when  finger  playfully 
Advanced  and  push'd  back  finger,  on  each  side. 
He  did  not  think  of  this,  as  she  would  do 
If  she  were  there  alone.     The  day  was  hot  ; 
The  moss  invited  him  ;  it  cool'd  his  cheek. 
It  cool'd  his  hands  ;  he  thrust  them  into  it 
And  sank  to  slumber.     Never  was  there  dream 
Divine  as  his.      He  saw  the  Hamadryad. 
She  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  on 
Along  a  valley,  where  profusely  grew 


ACON  AND  R  HO  DO  PR.  227 

The  smaller  lilies  with  their  pendant  bells, 

And,  hiding  under  mint,  chill  drosera, 

The  violet,  shy  of  butting  cyclamen. 

The  feathery  fern,  and,  browser  of  moist  banks. 

Her  offspring  round  her,  the  soft  strawberry  ; 

The  quivering  spray  of  ruddy  tamarisk, 

The  oleander's  light-hair'd  progeny 

Breathing  bright  freshness  in  each  other's  face. 

And  graceful  rose,  bending  her  brow,  with  cup 

Of  fragrance  and  of  beauty,  boon  for  gods. 

The  fragrance  fiU'd  his  breast  with  such  delight 

His  senses  were  bewildered,  and  he  thought 

He  saw  again  the  face  he  most  had  loved. 

He  stopp'd  :  the  Hamadryad  at  his  side 

Now  stood  between  ;  then  drew  him  farther  off : 

He  went,  compliant  as  before  :  but  soon 

Verdure  had  ceased  :  although  the  ground  was  smooth. 

Nothing  was  there  delightful.     At  this  change 

He  would  have  spoken,  but  his  guide  repress'd 

All  questioning,  and  said, 

"  Weak  youth  !    what  brought 
Thy  footstep  to  this  wood,  my  native  haunt. 
My  life-long  residence }  this  bank,  where  first 
I  sate  with  him  —  the  faithful  (now  I  know 
Too  late  ! )  the  faithful  Rhaicos.     Haste  thee  home  ; 
Be  happy,  if  thou  canst  ;  but  come  no  more 
Where  those  whom  death  alone  could  sever,  died." 

He  started  up  :  the  moss  whereon  he  slept 
Was  dried  and  withered  :  deadlier  paleness  spread 
Over  his  cheek  ;  he  sickened  :  and  the  sire 
Had  land  enough  ;  it  held  his  only  son. 


228  HELLENICS. 


XXXII. 

THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA. 

"  Artemidora  !     Gods  invisible, 

While  thou  art  lying  faint  along  the  couch, 

Have  tied  the  sandal  to  thy  veined  feet. 

And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  convey 

Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivers  flow. 

Refreshing  shades  will  waft  thy  weariness 

Away,  and  voices  like  thine  own  come  nigh, 

Soliciting,  nor  vainly,  thy  embrace." 

Artemidora  sigh'd,  and  would  have  press'd 

The  hand  now  pressing  hers,  but  was  too  weak. 

Fate's  shears  were  over  her  dark  hair  unseen 

While  thus  Elpenor  spake  :  he  look'd  into 

Eyes  that  had  given  light  and  life  erewhile 

To  those  above  them,  those  now  dim  with  tears 

And  watchfulness.     Again  he  spake  of  joy 

Eternal.     At  that  word,  that  sad  word,  y'ry, 

Faithful  and  fond  her  bosom  heav'd  once  more. 

Her  head  fell  back :  one  sob,  one  loud  deep  sob 

Swell'd  through  the  darken'd  chamber  ;  't  was  not  hers 

With  her  that  old  boat  incorruptible, 

Unwearied,  undiverted  in  its  course. 

Had  plash'd  the  water  up  the  farther  strand. 


THE    WRESTLING  MATCH.  229 


XXXIII. 
THE  WRESTLING  MATCH. 

[From  Gebir.\ 

"  'T  WAS  evening,  though  not  sunset,  and  the  tide 
Level  with  these  green  meadows,  seem'd  yet  higher 
'T  was  pleasant,  and  I  loosen'd  from  my  neck 
The  pipe  you  gave  me,  and  began  to  play. 

0  that  I  ne'er  had  learnt  the  tuneful  art ! 
It  always  brings  us  enemies  or  love. 
Well,  I  was  playing,  when  above  the  waves 
Some  swimmer's  head  methought  I  saw  ascend  ; 
I,  sitting  still,  survey'd  it  with  my  pipe 
Awkwardly  held  before  my  lips  half-closed. 
Gebir  !  it  was  a  Nymph  !  a  Nymph  divine  ! 

1  cannot  wait  describing  how  she  came, 
How  I  was  sitting,  how  she  first  assumed 
The  Sailor  ;  of  what  happen'd  there  remains 
Enough  to  say,  and  too  much  to  forget. 
The  sweet  deceiver  stepp'd  upon  this  bank 
Before  I  was  aware  ;  for  with  surprise 
Moments  fly  rapid  as  with  love  itself. 
Stooping  to  tune  afresh  the  hoarsen 'd  reed, 

I  heard  a  rustling,  and  where  that  arose 
My  glance  first  lighted  on  her  nimble  feet. 
Her  feet  resembled  those  long  shells  explored 
By  him  who  to  befriend  his  steed's  dim  sight 
Would  blow  the  pungent  powder  in  the  eye. 
Her  eyes  too  !     O  immortal  gods  !   her  eyes 
Resembled  —  what  could  they  resemble?  what 
Ever  resemble  those  ?     Even  her  attire 
Was  not  of  wonted  woof  nor  vulgar  art: 


230  GEBIR. 

Her  mantle  show'd  the  yellow  samphire-pod, 
Her  girdle  the  dove-colour'd  wave  serene. 
'  Shepherd,'  said  she,  '  and  will  you  wrestle  now. 
And  with  the  sailor's  hardier  race  engage  ? ' 
I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  contrived 
How  to  keep  up  contention  :  could  I  fail 
By  pressing  not  too  strongly,  yet  to  press  ? 
'  Whether  a  shepherd,  as  indeed  you  seem, 
Or  whether  of  the  hardier  race  you  boast, 
I  am  not  daunted  ;  no  ;   I  will  engage.' 
'But  first,'  said  she,  'what  wager  will  you  lay? ' 
'A  sheep,'  I  answered  :   'add  whate'er  you  will.' 
'I  cannot,'  she  replied,  'make  that  return: 
Our  hided  vessels  in  their  pitchy  round 
Seldom,  unless  from  rapine,  hold  a  sheep. 
Ijut  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where  when  unyoked 
His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave  : 
Shake  one  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 
Its  polish'd  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes. 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 
And  I  have  others  given  me  by  the  nymphs, 
Of  sweeter  sound  than  any  pipe  you  have ; 
But  we,  by  Neptune  !  for  no  pipe  contend; 
This  time  a  sheep  I  win,  a  pipe  the  next.' 
Now  came  she  forward  eager  to  engage. 
But  first  her  dress,  her  bosom  then  survey 'd. 
And  heaved  it,  doubting  if  she  could  deceive. 
Her  bosom  seem'd,  inclosed  in  haze  like  heaven, 
To  baffle  touch,  and  rose  forth  undefined  : 
Above  her  knee  she  drew  the  robe  succinct, 
Above  her  breast,  and  just  below  her  arms. 


THE    WRESTLING  MATCH.  231 

'  This  will  preserve  my  breath  when  tightly  bound, 

If  struggle  and  equal  strength  should  so  constrain.' 

Thus,  pulling  hard  to  fasten  it,  she  spake. 

And,  rushing  at  me,  closed :   I  thrill'd  throughout 

And  seem'd  to  lessen  and  shrink  up  with  cold. 

Again  with  violent  impulse  gush'd  my  blood, 

And  hearing  nought  external,  thus  absorb'd, 

I  heard  it,  rushing  through  each  turbid  vein, 

Shake  my  unsteady  swimming  sight  in  air. 

Yet  with  unyielding  though  uncertain  arms 

I  clung  around  her  neck  ;  the  vest  beneath 

Rustled  against  our  slippery  limbs  entwined  : 

Often  mine  springing  with  eluded  force 

Started  aside  and  trembled  till  replaced: 

And  when  I  most  succeeded,  as  I  thought. 

My  bosom  and  my  throat  felt  so  compress'd 

That  life  was  almost  quivering  on  my  lips. 

Yet  nothing  was  there  painful  :  these  are  signs 

Of  secret  arts  and  not  of  human  might ; 

What  arts  I  cannot  tell  ;   I  only  know 

My  eyes  grew  dizzy  and  my  strength  decay'd  ; 

I  was  indeed  o'ercome  —  with  what  regret, 

And  more,  with  what  confusion,  when  I  reach'd 

The  fold,  and  yielding  up  the  sheep,  she  cried, 

'This  pays  a  shepherd  to  a  conquering  maid.' 

She  smiled,  and  more  of  pleasure  than  disdain 

Was  in  her  dimpled  chin  and  liberal  lip, 

And  eyes  that  languish'd,  lengthening,  just  like  love. 

She  went  away  ;   I  on  the  wicker  gate 

Leant,  and  could  follow  with  my  eyes  alone. 

The  sheep  she  carried  easy  as  a  cloak  ; 

But  when  I  heard  its  bleating,  as  I  did, 

And  saw,  she  hastening  on,  its  hinder  feet 

Struggle,  and  from  her  snowy  shoulder  slip, 


232  TO   lANTHE. 

One  shoulder  its  poor  efforts  had  unveil'd, 

Then  all  my  passions  mingling  fell  in  tears  ; 

Restless  then  ran  I  to  the  highest  ground 

To  watch  her ;  she  was  gone  ;  gone  down  the  tide ; 

And  the  long  moonbeam  on  the  hard  wet  sand 

Lay  like  a  jasper  column  half  uprear'd." 

XXXIV. 
TO  lANTHE. 


It  often  comes  into  my  head 

That  we  may  dream  when  we  are  dead, 

But  I  am  far  from  sure  we  do. 
O  that  it  were  so  !  then  my  rest 
Would  be  indeed  among  the  blest ; 

I  should  for  ever  dream  of  you. 


lanthe  !  you  are  call'd  to  cross  the  sea  ! 

A  path  forbidden  me ! 
Remember,  while  the  sun  his  blessing  sheds 

Upon  the  mountain-heads, 
How  often  we  have  watch'd  him  laying  down 

His  brow,  and  dropp'd  our  own 
Against  each  other's,  and  how  faint  and  short 

And  sliding  the  support  ! 
What  will  succeed  it  now  ?     Mine  is  unblest, 

lanthe  !  nor  will  rest 
But  on  the  very  thought  that  swells  with  pain. 

O  bid  me  hope  again  ! 
O  give  me  back  what  Earth,  what  (without  you) 

Not  Heaven  itself  can  do. 


J?OSE   AYLMER.  233 

One  of  the  golden  days  that  we  have  past ; 

And  let  it  be  my  last ! 
Or  else  the  gift  would  be,  however  sweet, 

Fragile  and  incomplete. 


Your  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the  grass, 
Cut  down  and  up  again  as  blithe  as  ever  ; 

From  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 
Like  little  ripples  in  a  sunny  river. 

4. 

Well  I  remember  how  you  smiled 

To  see  me  write  your  name  upon 
The  soft  sea-sand,  —  "  O  !  what  a  child  ! 

You  think  you  're  writing  upon  stone  ! " 
I  have  since  written  what  no  tide 

Shall  ever  wash  away,  what  men 
Unborn  shall  read  o'er  ocean  wide 

And  find  lanthe's  name  again. 


XXXV. 
ROSE  AYLMER. 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race. 

Ah  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


234  A    FIESOLAN  IDYL. 

XXXVI. 

A    FIESOLAN    IDYL. 

Here,  where  precipitate  Spring  with  one  light  bound 
Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms  expires, 
And  where  go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at  night, 
.     Soft  airs  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with  'em. 
And  softer  sighs  that  know  not  what  they  want, 
Aside  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange-tree, 
VVho.se  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  lowlier  ones 
Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 
While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 
At  what  they  seem'd  to  show  me  with  their  nods. 
Their  frequent  whispers  and  their  pointing  shoots, 
A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden-steps 
And  gathered  the  pure  treasure  in  her  lap. 
I  heard  the  branches  rustle,  and  stepp'd  forth 
To  drive  the  ox  away,  or  mule,  or  goat, 
Such  I  believed  it  must  be.     How  could  I 
Let  beast  o'erpower  them  ?  when  hath  wind  or  rain 
Borne  hard  upon  weak  plant  that  wanted  me, 
And  I  (however  they  might  bluster  round) 
Walk'd  off  ?     'T  were  most  ungrateful :  for  sweet  scents 
Are  the  swift  vehicles  of  still  sweeter  thought.s. 
And  nurse  and  ])i]low  the  dull  memory 
That  would  let  drop  without  them  her  best  stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones  of  love. 
And  't  is  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die 
(Whene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls  depart) 
Among  their  kindred  in  their  native  place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose  ;  the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank 


i 


A   FIESOLAX  IDYL.  235 

And  not  reproach'd  me  ;  the  ever-sacred  cup 
Of  the  pure  Uly  hath  between  my  hands 
Felt  safe,  unsoil'd,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 
I  saw  the  light  that  made  the  glossy  leaves 
More  glossy ;  the  fair  arm,  the  fairer  cheek 
Warmed  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit ; 
I  saw  the  foot  that,  although  half-erect 
From  its  gray  slipper,  could  not  lift  her  up 
To  what  she  wanted  :   1  held  down  a  branch 
And  gather'd  her  some  blossoms  ;  since  their  hour 
Was  come,  and  bees  had  wounded  them,  and  flies 
Of  harder  wing  were  working  their  way  thro' 
And  scattering  them  in  fragments  under  foot. 
So  crisp  were  some,  they  rattled  unevolved, 
Others,  ere  broken  off,  fell  into  shells. 
Unbending,  brittle,  lucid,  white  like  snow, 
And  like  snow  not  seen  through,  by  eye  or  sun  : 
Yet  every  one  her  gown  received  from  me 
Was  fairer  than  the  first.     I  thought  not  so, 
But  so  she  praised  them  to  reward  my  care. 
I  said,  "  You  find  the  largest." 

"  This  indeed," 
Cried  she,  "is  large  and  sweet."     She  held  one  forth. 
Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I  ;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solved  (and  this  she  felt)  her  doubt. 
I  dared  not  touch  it  ;  for  it  seemed  a  part 
Of  her  own  self  ;  fresh,  full,  the  most  mature 
Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom  ;  with  a  touch 
To  fall,  and  yet  unfallen.     She  drew  back 
The  boon  she  tender'd,  and  then,  fuiding  not 
The  ribbon  at  her  waist  to  fix  it  in, 
DrojDp'd  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 


236  UPON  A    SWEET-BRIAR. 

XXXVII. 

UPON   A  SWEET-BRIAR. 

My  briar  that  smelledst  sweet 
When  gentle  spring's  first  heat 

Ran  through  thy  quiet  veins, — 
Thou  that  wouldst  injure  none, 
But  wouldst  be  left  alone, 
Alone  thou  leavest  me,  and  nought  of  thine  remains. 

What  !  hath  no  poet's  lyre 
O'er  thee,  sweet-breathing  briar, 

Hung  fondly,  ill  or  well  ? 
And  yet  methinks  with  thee 
A  poet's  sympathy. 
Whether  in  weal  or  woe,  in  life  or  death,  might  dwell. 

Hard  usage  both  must  bear, 
Few  hands  your  youth  will  rear. 

Few  bosoms  cherish  you  ; 
Your  tender  prime  must  bleed 
Ere  you  are  sweet,  but  freed 
From  life,  you  then  are  prized  ;  thus  prized  are  poets  too. 


And  art  thou  yet  alive  ? 
And  shall  the  happy  hive 

Send  out  her  youth  to  cull 
Thy  sweets  of  leaf  and  flower. 
And  spend  the  sunny  hour 
With  thee,  and  thy  faint  heart  with  murmuring  music  lull  ? 

Tell  me  what  tender  care. 
Tell  me  what  pious  prayer, 
Bade  thee  arise  and  live. 


THE   MAIjys  LAMENT.  237 

t 

The  fondest-favoured  bee 
Shall  whisper  nought  to  thee 
More  loving  than  the  song  my  grateful  muse  shall  give. 

XXXVIII. 
THE    MAID'.S    LAMENT. 

I  LOVED  him  not;   and  yet  now  he  is  gone 

1  feel  I  am  alone. 
1  check'd  him  while  he  spoke;  yet  could  he  speak, 

Alas!   I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him:  I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death. 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me:  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep. 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears. 
Merciful  God !  such  was  his  latest  prayer. 

These  may  she  never  share. 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold. 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould. 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  churchyard  gate. 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be, 

And  oh !  pray  too  for  me. 


238  TO   ROBERT  BROWNING. 

XXXIX. 

TO   ROliEKT  UROWNING. 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear 

Beside  the  singer  ;  and  there  is  delight 

In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 

And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 

Shakspeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's. 

Therefore  on  him  no  speech  !  and  brief  for  thee, 

Browning !     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 

No  man  hath  walk'd  along  our  roads  with  step 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 

So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 

Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing  :  the  breeze 

Of  Alpine  highths  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 

The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 

XL. 
TO  THE  SISTER  OF  ELIA. 

Comfort  thee,  O  thou  mourner,  yet  awhile  ! 

Again  shall  Elia's  smile 
Refresh  thy  heart,  where  heart  can  ache  nu  more  : 

What  is  it  we  deplore  ? 

He  leaves  behind  him,  freed  from  griefs  and  years, 

P'ar  worthier  things  than  tears. 
The  love  of  friends  without  a  single  foe  : 

Unequalled  lot  below ! 

His  gentle  soul,  his  genius,  these  are  thine  ; 

For  these  dost  thou  repine  ? 
He  may  have  left  the  lowly  walks  of  men  ; 

Left  them  he  has  ;  what  then  ? 


ON  DIRCE.  239 

Are  not  his  footsteps  followed  by  the  eyes 

Of  all  the  good  and  wise  ? 
Though  the  warm  day  is  over,  yet  they  seek 

Upon  the  lofty  peak 

Of  his  pure  mind  the  roseate  light  that  glows 

O'er  death's  perennial  snows. 
Behold  him  !  from  the  region  of  the  blest 

He  speaks  :  he  bids  thee  rest. 

XLI. 
ON  DIRCE. 

Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set. 
With  Dirce  in  one  boat  convey'd, 

Or  Charon,  seeing,  may  forget 
That  he  is  old,  and  she  a  shade. 

XLI  I. 

/  7oill  not  love  I 

These  sounds  have  often 

Burst  from  a  troubled  breast ; 
Rarely  from  one  no  sighs  could  soften. 

Rarely  from  one  at  rest. 

OLD  AGE  AND  DEATH. 

XLIII. 

How  many  voices  gaily  sing, 

"  O  happy  morn,  O  happy  spring 

Of  life  ! "     Meanwhile  there  comes  o'er  me 

A  softer  voice  from  Memory, 

And  says,  "  If  loves  and  hopes  have  flown 

With  years,  think  too  what  griefs  are  gone  !  " 


240  OLD   AGE   AND   DEATH. 


XLIV. 


The  place  where  soon  I  think  to  lie, 
In  its  old  creviced  nook  hard-by 

Rears  many  a  weed  : 
If  parties  bring  you  there,  will  you 
Drop  slily  in  a  grain  or  two 

Of  wall-tiower  seed  ? 

I  shall  not  see  it,  and  (too  sure  !) 
I  shall  not  ever  hear  that  your 

Light  step  was  there  ; 
But  the  rich  odour  some  fine  day 
Will,  what  I  cannot  do,  repay 

That  little  care. 


XLV. 
TO  AGE. 

Welcome,  old  friend  !  These  many  years 
Have  we  lived  door  by  door  : 

The  Fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 
Perhaps  for  some  few  more. 

I  was  indocile  at  an  age 

When  better  boys  were  taught, 

But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 
If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men. 

Too  little  they  from  me. 
But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 


OLD   AGE   AND   DEATH.  241 

Thanks  for  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,  the  other  vain  ; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope, 

I  shall  not  see  again  : 

Rather  what  lies  before  my  feet 

My  notice  shall  engage. 
He  who  hath  braved  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads  not  the  frost  of  Age. 

XLVI. 

ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH   BIRTHDAY. 

I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife, 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art ; 

I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  hre  of  life, 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

XLVII. 
ON  HIS  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  totter'd  on, 

And  no  soft  arm  bends  now  my  steps  to  steady  ; 

She,  who  once  led  me  where  she  would,  is  gone. 
So  when  he  calls  me,  Death  shall  find  me  ready. 

XLvril. 

Dea  TH  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 

I  know  not  what  into  my  ear  : 
Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 

Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 


NOTES. 


[Date  following  title  sliows  year  of  first  publication.] 


3  I.  Achilles  and  Helena  (1853).  Helen's  meeting  with  Achilles, 
in  answer  to  his  prayer  to  Aplirodite  and  Thetis,  is  an  incident  in  a 
lost  epic  anciently  attriljuted  to  Homer,  based  on  early  traditions  of 
tlie  Trojan  war.  Though  this  colloquy  is  not  Homeric,  nor  are  the 
speakers  especially  lifelike,  yet  various  traits  —  the  distinctness  of  the 
scene,  the  references  to  familiar  incidents  in  the  Iliad,  the  implication 
of  the  effect  produced  by  the  hero  and  the  beauty  on  each  other,  the 
refined  reticence,  the  sureness  of  touch  — render  the  dialogue  an  ade- 
quate specimen  of  handor's  characteristically  measured  treatment  of 
short  heroic  themes  from  the  Greek  mythology. 

Landor  was  fond  of  these  subjects,  and  handled  them  as  only  he 
could.  There  are  several  dialogues  like  this,  some  in  verse,  others  — 
of  which  this  is  one  —  originally  in  prose  and  afterward  versified.  As 
the  prose  versions  are  the  better,  this  scene  may  here  suffice  to  repre- 
sent the  class  to  which  it  belongs  —  a  class  which  even  Landor's  treat- 
ment can  make  interesting  only  to  those  who  dan  find  the  certain,  if  not 
quite  spontaneous,  pleasure  which  lies  hidden  in  all  work  where  techni- 
cal merit  reaches  excellence.  The  point,  which  is  worth  dwelling  on 
for  a  moment  at  the  outset  as  marking  a  radical  difference  between  two 
ways  of  estimating  Landor's  work,  may  be  illustrated  by  reference 
to  a  remark  of  one  of  his  best  critics,  who  believes  that  in  the  scene 
between  Peleus  and  Thetis,  which  is  a  worthy  companion  of  this 
between  Achilles  and  Helen,  he  "  unites  with  the  full  charm  of  Hellenic 
mythology  the  full  vividness  of  human  passion."  That  is  attemptecl : 
to  say  that  the  attempt  is  successful  is  to  claim  for  the  scene  dramatic 
power  of  the  first  order,  and  so  to  set  the  douljter  rummaging  his  recol- 
lection for  scenes  which  have  actually  moved  him.  That  parts  of 
Landor's  work  are  suffused  with  human  feeling,  few  of  his  readers 
deny ;  but  fewer  still  would  admit  the  mythological  dialogues  to  be 
more  than  a  cool  reflection  of  the  antique  fire  which  kindled  Landor's 


244  NOTES. 

own  emotion.  His  mythical  Greeks,  we  must  concede,  do  not  rival  the 
true  creatures  of  the  art  of  Gieece ;  at  most  they  are  like  pale  marbles 
wrought  by  a  foremost  student  of  Greek  modes.  Grudging  though 
such  praise  as  this  may  sound,  it  ranks  them  above  modern  rivals. 

The  dainty  passage  about  "  trees  and  bright-eyed  flowers  "  (p.  6)  is  in 
tune  with  I.andor's  line: 

Flowers  may  enjoy  their  own  pure  dreams  of  bliss. 

9  II.  ^sop  and  Rhodope  (1846).  Of  Rhodope,  the  "  rose-faced," 
a  fellow-slave,  according  to  Herodotus,  witli  yEsop,  to  whom  she 
became  attached,  nothing  is  known  beyond  a  few  legendary  details, 
some  of  which  are  here  used.  The  two  Conversations  between  them 
are  so  nearly  equal  in  ease  and  grace  that,  rather  than  exclude  either, 
I  prefer,  even  at  the  risk  of  mutilation,  to  give  part  of  each.  There  is 
great  flexibility  in  the  treatment  of  both  characters,  with  an  abundance 
of  beautifully  modulated  passages. 

.(^sop's  reflections,  near  the  beginning  (pp.  9-10),  on  the  desiraljility 
of  early  death  —  "  It  is  better  to  repose  in  the  earth  betimes,"  with  the 
several  lines  preceding  and  following  —  may  be  compared  with  the  some- 
what similar  reflections  contained  in  a  quatrain  of  Landor's  : 

Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour 

In  its  calm  cell  to  rest  the  weary  head, 
While  birds  are  singing  and  while  blooms  the  bower, 

Than  sit  tlie  fire  out  and  go  starved  to  bed .'' 

Here  the  prose  passage  is  more  imaginative  than  the  verse,  more  original, 
developed  with  greater  ease  and  freedom,  more  es.sentially  poetic,  more 
harmonious  to  the  ear,  and  quite  free  from  any  such  feebly  frigid  con- 
ventional touch  as  ends  the  tliird  line  of  the  quatrain. 

The  incident  related  by  Rhodope  in  the  latter  part  is  of  Landor's 
invention.  The  song  of  the  Fates  (p.  iS)  alludes  to  the  story  that  she 
became  queen  of  Egypt,  which  is  thus  quaintly  told  by  Burton  :  '■^Rho- 
dope was  the  fairest  Lady,  in  her  days,  in  all  F.i^ypt ;  she  went  to  wash 
her,  and  by  chance  (her  maids  meanwhile  looking  but  carelessly  to  her 
clothes)  an  Eagle  stole  away  one  of  her  shoes,  and  laid  it  in  /\uitu- 
metichtis  the  King  of  Egypt'' s  lap  at  Memphis:  he  wondered  at  the 
excellency  of  the  shoe,  and  pretty  foot,  but  more  aqiiilae  factum,  at  the 
manner  of  the  bringing  of  it:  and  caused,  forthwith,  proclamation  to 
be  made,  that  she  that  owned  that  shoe  should  come  presently  to  his 
Court;  the  Virgin  came  and  was  forthwith  married  to  the  King." 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  Part.  III.  Sect.  II.  Mem.  V.  Subs.  V. 


NOTES.  245 

19  III.  Tiberius  and  Vipsania  (1S2S).  Suetonius  is  authority  for 
this  interview,  of  which  Landor  says  :  "  Vipsania,  the  daughter  of 
Agrippa,  was  divorced  from  Tiberius  by  Augustus  and  Livia,  in  order 
that  he  might  marry  Julia,  and  hold  the  empire  by  inheritance.  He 
retained  such  an  affection  for  her,  and  showed  it  so  intensely  when  he 
once  met  her  afterward,  that  every  precaution  was  taken  lest  they  should 
meet  again." 

Mr.  Swinburne,  in  his  article  on  Landor  in  the  Encyclopicilia  Britan- 
nica,  remarks  that  "  his  utmost  command  of  passion  and  pathos  may 
be  tested  by  its  transcendent  success  in  the  distilled  and  concentrated 
tragedy  of  Tiberius  and  Vipsania^  where  for  once  he  shows  a  quality 
more  proper  to  romantic  than  classical  imaghiation,  —  the  suljtle  and 
sublime  and  terrible  power  to  enter  the  dark  vestibule  of  distraction,  to 
throw  the  whole  force  of  his  fancy,  the  whole  fire  of  his  spirit,  into  the 
'shadowing  passion '  (as  Shakespeare  calls  it)  of  gradually  imminent 
insanity."  This  exalted  estimate  is  only  Mr.  Swinburne's  inimitable 
way  of  saying  definitely  what  others  had  vaguely  felt  before  him  — 
Julius  Hare,  for  instance,  declaring  the  dialogue  to  be  the  "greatest 
English  poem  since  the  death  of  Milton."  Landor  himself  thought  it 
superlatively  good,  and  tells  in  his  letters  how  he  tried  again  and  again 
before  he  got  it  right,  shedding  copious  tears  in  the  attempt.  Feeling 
so  real  is  respectable.  Yet  few  of  the  present  critical  generation  can 
share  it,  or  can  allow  that  the  tragic  pang  fully  vitalises  Landor's 
Romans.  Mr.  Swinburne's  maladroit  allusion  to  one  of  the  tremen- 
dous moments  in  Otiicllo  does  Landor  an  ill  turn,  by  suggesting  a 
comparison  which  his  Tilh-riits  and  Vipsania  cannot  bear.  Cooler 
consideration,  while  noting  Landor's  limitation,  as  thus  unwittingly 
implied  in  his  eulogist's  unmeasured  words,  yet  need  not  hesitate  to 
recognise  in  the  scene  artistic  qualities  so  high  and  rare,  so  distinctive 
of  its  author,  as  to  entitle  it  to  a  place  in  the  first  rank  of  its  class. 
Precisely  what  that  class  is,  it  seems  worth  while  to  try  to  indicate.  A 
random  remark  of  Mr.  A.  J.  C.  Hare's  may  help  to  a  true  discrimination 
between  the  type  of  beauty  which  does  exist  in  some  of  Landor's  most 
highly  wrought  scenes  and  that  which  does  not.  He  casually  mentions 
Landor's  habit  of  sitting  long  silent  in  "  impassioned  contemplation  "  — 
a  phrase  which  recalls  Landor's  own  saying  that  he  "  walked  alone  on 
the  far  eastern  uplands,  meditating  and  remembering."  Here,  it  would 
appear,  is  a  suggestion  of  the  mood  in  which  such  a  scene  as  this  may 
have  been  composed,  and  which  it  may  induce  in  an  imaginative  reader. 
The  dominant  note,  in  short,  is  contemplative  and  meditative,  rather 
than  actively  and  tragically  passionate.     On  page   195  of  this  volume 


246  NOTES. 

T'etrarch  and  Boccaccio,  speaking  for  Landor,  support  the  view  here 
advanced. 

23  IV.  Metellus  and  Marius  (1S29).  .Strikingly  characteristic,  and 
therefore  worth  attentive  examination.  The  first  speech  of  Metellus 
accurately  describes  Marius  as  in  the  course  of  the  action  he  is  .shown 
to  be.  The  reply  of  Marius,  exhibiting  his  promptness,  also  implies 
the  adjacent  outlook  ;  his  next  is  full  of  youthful  eagerness  and  intre- 
pidity. The  third  speech  of  Metellus,  in  two  parts,  shows,  without  men- 
tioning it,  what  Marius  has  done  while  he  was  .speaking.  Then  follow 
the  suggestion  of  Metellus  that  the  centurion  is  afraid,  the  indifference 
of  Marius  to  that  insinuation  in  surroundings  which  might  well  justify 
fear,  and  presently  the  recognition  by  the  tribune  of  his  junior's  fearless- 
ness. The  reader  may,  on  these  hints,  pursue  for  himself  the  examina- 
tion of  the  method  and  mark  the  result.  He  will  find  strict  attention 
throughout  to  minute  detail  both  of  incident  and  of  language,  which  is 
so  shown  and  so  arranged  as  to  produce  a  precise  picture  of  all  that 
Marius  sees,  as  well  as  of  the  effect  on  Metellus  of  his  account  of  his 
experiences.  It  is  as  vivid  as  Rebecca's  account  of  the  storming  of 
Front  de  Boeuf's  castle,  differing  from  that  in  the  extreme  verbal  com- 
pre.s.sion  and  in  the  exclusion  of  all  irrelevance.  The  "  civic  fire  "  (p.  27), 
which  is  rightly  accounted  a  powerful  stroke  of  imagination  on  Landor's 
part,  tliough  greatly  heightening  the  effect,  it  is  yet  possible  to  regard 
as  bordering  on  that  province  of  the  grotesque  which  Mr.  Rider  Haggard 
rules.  The  concluding  monologue  of  Marius,  referring  to  a  story  of 
Plutarch's  to  the  effect  that  .Scipio,  having  noticed  an  act  of  valor  per- 
formed by  Marius,  had  .singled  him  out  as  his  own  possible  successor, 
makes  a  resounding  climax  to  a  peculiarly  coherent  and  telling 
dialogue. 

J'lutarch  and  Appian  furnish  the  facts  relating  to  Marius  and  to  the 
reduction  by  famine  of  Numantia;  anil  Landor  supplies  the  imaginative 
treatment  whereby  the  speakers  and  the  scene,  obviously  very  distinct 
to  himself,  become  so  to  the  attentive  reader  who  is  willing  to  make  a 
slight  effort.  'I"he  whole  thing  seems  as  typically  I.andorian  as  almost 
any  other  equal  number  of  cf)nsecutive  pages. 

28  V.  Marcellus  and  Hannibal  (182S).  Appian  and  Plutarch  give 
the  facts  on  which  this  scene  is  based;  Landor,  characteristically,  pro- 
longs the  life  of  Marcellus  till  Hannibal  reaches  him,  and  thus  renders 
possible  a  dialogue  embodying  the  dauntless  pride  of  the  Roman  and 
the  generosity  of  his  victorious  foe.  Nothing  better  illustrates  Landor's 
method  of  adapting  history  to  his  ])urpose  ;  and  few  of  his  scenes  more 
fully  justify  the  procedure  than  this  one,  which  is,  to  an  unusual  degree, 


NOTES,  247 

animated  by  the  spirit  of  traditional  Roman  haughtiness  and  martial 
dignity.  These  traits  are  perfectly  matched  by  the  style,  which  is  direct, 
elevated,  controlled,  statuesque,  not  quite  mobile. 

33  VI.  Henry  VIII.  and  Anne  Boleyn  (1824).  Of  the  various 
laudatory  comments  made  on  this  vigorous  scene  by  Landor's  admiring 
friends,  the  one  best  worth  recording  is  Julius  Hare's  just  remark  that 
a  "  fine  peculiarity  "  consists  in  the  simplicity  of  the  language,  which 
tells  the  whole  story  almost  without  imagery.  Yet  Coleridge  asserted, 
in  i>S34,  that  Landor  had  "never  learned  to  write  simple  and  lucid 
English." 

Especially  in  the  case  of  scenes  from  English  history,  it  would  be  out 
of  place  in  these  notes  to  discuss  Eandor's  conception  of  characters 
over  which  historians  contend.  His  own  comments,  however,  may  still 
be  read  with  interest  by  such  as  care  to  put  themselves  for  the  moment 
at  his  point  of  view,  which  he  is  never  averse  to  stating  with  clearness. 
Among  his  utterances  on  the  sul)ject  of  Henry  are  these  bits  of  sar- 
casm :  "  Henry  was  not  unlearned,  nor  indifferent  to  the  costly  exter- 
nals of  a  gentleman  ;  but  in  manners  and  language  he  was  hardly  on  a 
level  with  our  hostlers  of  the  present  day."  "  His  reign  is  one  con- 
tinued proof,  flaring  and  wearisome  as  a  Lapland  summer  day,  that 
even  the  English  form  of  government,  under  a  sensual  king  with  money 
at  his  disposal,  may  serve  only  to  legitimize  injustice."  "The  govern- 
ment was  whatever  the  king  ordered;  and  he  a  ferocious  and  terrific 
thing,  swinging  on  high  between  two  windy  superstitions,  and  caught 
and  propelled  alternately  Ijy  fanaticism  and  lust."  "  It  does  not  ap- 
pear that  tlie  Defender  of  the  Faith  brought  his  wife  to  the  scaffold 
for  the  good  of  her  soul,  nor  that  she  was  pregnant  at  the  time,  which 
would  have  added  much  to  the  merit  of  the  action,  as  there  is  the 
probability  that  the  child  would  have  been  heretical."  Whether  his- 
torically sound  or  not,  the  feeling  which  animates  those  sentences  is 
unquestionaljly  embodied  with  keen  zest  in  this  fictitious  interview 
between  the  father  and  the  unfortunate  mother  of  Elizabeth. 

41  VII.  Roger  Ascham  and  Lady  Jane  Grey  (1S24).  The  touch 
of  pedantry  in  the  master,  his  ominous  foreboding,  his  solicitude  for  his 
pupil,  her  winning  innocence  and  trustfulness,  all  e.xpressed  in  musically 
cadenced  sentences,  give  to  this  slight  scene  a  dainty  tenderness  of 
pathetic  suggestion. 

A  glance  at  the  subjoined  passage  from  the  Scholc7u aster  will  show 
between  Ascham's  style  and  Landor's  a  wide  dissimilarity  not  incom- 
patible with  charm  wliich  the  two  pictures  have  in  common  :  "  Before 


248  .         NOTES. 

I  went  into  Germanic,  I  came  to  Brodegate  in  Le[i]cefterfhire,  to  take 
my  leaue  of  that  noble  Ladie  lane  Grey,  to  whom  I  was  exceding  moch 
beholdinge.  Hir  parentes,  the  Duke  and  Duches,  with  all  the  houf- 
hold,  Gentlemen  and  Gentlewomen,  were  huntinge  in  the  Parke :  I 
foiinde  her,  in  her  Chamber,  readinge  Phivdoti  Platoiiis  in  Greeke,  and 
that  with  as  moch  delite,  as  fom  ientlemen  wold  read  a  merie  tale 
in  Bocafe.  After  falutation,  and  dewtie  done,  with  fom  other  taulke, 
I  a(ked  hir,  whie  f  he  wold  leefe  foch  pallime  in  the  Parke  ?  fmiling  f  he 
anfwered  me :  I  wiffe,  all  their  fporte  in  the  Parke  is  but  a  fhadoe  to 
that  pleafure,  that  I  find  in  Plato :  Alas  good  folke,  they  neuer  felt, 
what  trewe  pleafure  ment.  And  howe  came  you  Madame,  quoth  I,  to 
this  deepe  knowledge  of  pleafure,  and  what  did  chieflie  allure  you  vnto 
it :  feinge,  not  many  women,  but  verie  fewe  men  haue  atteined  there- 
unto. I  will  tell  you,  quoth  fhe,  and  tell  you  a  troth,  which  perchance 
ye  will  meruell  at.  One  of  the  greatefl  benefites,  that  euer  God  gaue 
me,  is,  that  he  fent  me  fo  fharpe  and  feuere  Parentes,  and  fo  ientle  a 
fcholemafter.  For  when  I  am  in  prefence  either  of  father  or  mother, 
whether  I  fpeake,  kepe  filence,  fit,  fland,  or  go,  eate,  drinke,  be  merie, 
or  fad,  be  fowyng,  plaiyng,  dauncing,  or  doing  anei  thing  els,  I  mufl  do 
it,  as  it  were,  in  soch  weight,  mefure,  and  number,  euen  fo  perfitelie,  as 
God  made  the  world,  or  elfe  I  am  fo  f  harplie  taunted,  fo  cruellie  threat- 
ened, yea  prefentlie  fome  tymes,  with  pinches,  nippes,  and  bobbes,  and 
other  waies,  which  I  will  not  name,  for  tlie  lionor  I  beare  them,  fo 
without  meafure  mifordered,  that  I  thinke  my  felfe  in  hell,  till  tyme 
cum,  that  I  mufl  go  to  M.  Elmer,  who  teacheth  me  fo  ientlie,  fo  pleaf- 
antlie,  with  soch  faire  allurementes  to  learning,  that  I  thinke  all  the 
tyme  nothing,  whiles  I  am  with  him.  And  when  I  am  called  from  him, 
I  fall  on  weeping,  becaufe,  what  foeuer  I  do  els,  but  learning,  is  ful  of 
grief,  trouble,  feare,  and  whole  mifliking  vnto  me :  And  thus  my 
booke,  hath  bene  fo  moch  my  pleafure,  and  bringeth  dayly  to  me  more 
pleafure  and  more,  that  in  refpect  of  it,  all  other  pleafures,  in  very  deede, 
be  but  trifles  and  trou])les  vnto  me.  I  remember  this  talke  gladly,  both 
bicaufe  it  is  fo  worthy  of  memorie,  and  bicaufe  alfo,  it  was  the  lall  talke 
that  euer  I  had,  and  the  lad  tyme,  that  euer  I  faw  that  noble  and 
worthie  Ladie." 

Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  remarks  that  landor's  antipathy  to  Plato  leads 
him  to  deprive  Jane  of  her  favourite  author,  allowing  her  only  Cicero 
and  Epictetus  and  Plutarch  and  I'olybius. 

44  VIII.  Princess  Mary  and  Princess  Elizabeth  (1S46).  This  is 
the  most  natural  and  most  entertaining  of  the  three  Conversations  in 
which  Elizabeth  takes  part. 


NOTES.  249 

In  the  group  of  scenes  laid  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  the  one  between 
Mary  Stuart  and  Bothwell  has  merit.  Its  blemish  is  that  Landor's 
Queen  of  Scots,  meant  to  be  winsomely  feminine,  unluckily  comports 
herself  at  moments  with  the  pert  self-consciousness  of  an  underbred 
little  girl  flustered  by  the  attentions  of  her  first  beau.  Some  of  Lan- 
dor's women  are  among  his  most  satisfactory  personages.  Such  are 
Jane  Grey,  Anne  Boleyn,  Alice  Lisle  and  Elizabeth  Gaunt,  Godiva, 
Catharine,  Leonora,  Aspasia,  Giovanna,^  each  one  of  whom  in  her  own 
way  justifies  these  words  of  his  in  a  letter  to  Southey:  "  1  delight  in 
the  minute  variations  and  almost  imperceptible  shades  of  the  female 
character,  and  confess  that  my  reveries,  from  my  most  early  youth, 
were  almost  entirely  on  what  this  one  or  that  one  would  have  said  or 
done  in  this  or  that  situation.  Their  countenances,  their  movements, 
their  forms,  the  colours  of  their  dresses,  were  before  my  eyes."  His 
comments  on  Virgil's  treatment  of  the  character  of  Dido  are  in  keeping 
with  the  feeling  here  expressed.  But  he  does«ot  always  give  to  his 
reveries  on  the  female  character,  in  its  "  minute  variations  and  almost 
imperceptible  shades,"  a  body  that  breathes  and  moves  like  a  true 
woman.  Those  who  are  animated  by  some  set  purpose  in  a  crisis  are 
far  more  apt  to  call  forth  his  best  powers  than  those  who  merely  behave 
like  the  ladies  of  one's  acquaintance.  When  he  attempts  the  casual 
in  his  treatment  of  the  feminine  nature,  he  sometimes  lapses  into  the 
commonplace  or  the  trivial.  His  mind  was  of  a  cast  so  essentially 
heroic  that  a  sense  of  something  out  of  keeping  is  liable  to  mar  the 
effect  of  his  pictures  of  the  usual  or  incidental  —  especially  in  the  con- 
duct of  women.  At  the  precise  point  where  Jane  Austen  falls  only 
just  short  of  supremacy  Landor  dwindles  almost  to  insignificance. 
He  is  cited  by  Mr.  Locker-Lampson  as  saying  prettily  of  Addison  that 
there  was  "  coyness  in  his  style,  the  archness  and  shyness  of  a  graceful 
and  beautiful  girl  " — the  very  qualities  in  which  his  own  style  is  defi- 
cient. The  gracious  figure  of  Assunta,  in  the  Pentameron,  tends  to 
belie  the  somewhat  comprehensive  generalisation  made  above  ;  but  she 
is  quite  exceptional,  if  not  unique. 

54  IX.  Essex  and  Spenser  (1834).  Drummond  of  Hawthornden 
says  Ben  Jonson  told  him,  "That  the  Irish  having  rob'd  Spenser's 
goods,  and  burnt  his  house  and  a  litle  child  new  born,  he  and  his  wyfe 
escaped ;  and  after,  he  died  for  lake  of  bread  in  King  Street,  and  re- 

*  "  How  few  hands  since  Shakespeare,"  exclaims  Professor  Dowden  with  enthusiastic 

exaggeration,  "could  have  drawn  so  difficult  and  delicate  a  portrait  as  that  of  (lio- 
vanna  1  "  Aspasia  and  f  liovanna  are  on  a  larger  scale  than  Landor's  other  female  figures, 
and  both  have  moments  of  life. 


250  NOTES. 

fused  20  pieces  sent  to  him  by  my  Lord  of  Essex,  and  said,  He  was 
sorrie  he  had  no  time  to  spend  them"  —  some  of  which  statements 
probably  far  exceed  the  facts. 

The  early  part  of  the  dialogue,  here  omitted,  deals  with  the  disturb- 
ances in  Ireland,  and  leads  naturally  to  Spenser's  account  of  his  own 
calamity.  The  bearing  of  both  speakers  under  increasing  emotion  is  so 
admirably  indicated  as  to  come  near  stirring  real  emotion  in  the  reader. 

59  X.  Leofric  and  Godiva  (1829).  So  enchanting  a  scene,  so  fra- 
grant and  wooing,  so  musically  pleading,  so  human,  needs  no  comment. 
The  only  flaw  —  if  that  can  be  called  a  flaw  which  is  almost  an  inherent 
attribute  of  work  in  this  form  —is  the  occasional  perhaps  slightly  too 
obvious  intrusion  into  the  dialogue  of  implied  stage  directions  for  the 
reader's  information. 

Leofric's  picture  of  Godiva  mounting  her  horse  (p.  64)  brings  to  mind 
Landor's  line : 

Calflt  hair  meandering  in  pellucid  gold. 

"  May  the  peppermint,"  etc.,  recalls  Newman  wistfully  remembering, 
after  he  had  joined  the  Church  of  Rome,  the  snap-dragon  which  used 
to  grow  opposite  his  freshman's  rooms  at  Trinity  College. 

"Among  the  moderns,"  writes  Landor  in  his  essay  on  Theocritus, 
"  no  poet,  it  appears  to  us,  has  written  an  Idyl  so  perfect,  so  pure  and 
simple  in  expression,  yet  so  rich  in  thought  and  imagery,  as  the  Godiva 
of  Alfred  Tennyson,"  which  Emerson  calls  "  a  noble  poem  that  will 
tell  the  legend  a  thousand  years."  Landor's  treatment  of  the  subject 
preceded  Tennyson's  in  publication  by  thirteen  years. 

65  XI.  The  Lady  Lisle  and  Elizabeth  Gaunt  (1S29).  Lady  Alice 
(more  properly  Mrs.)  Li.sle,  widow  of  one  of  the  Regicides,  was  be- 
headed at  Winchester,  and  Elizabeth  Gaunt  was  burned  at  Tyburn,  for 
harboring  persons  concerned  in  the  Duke  of  Monmouth's  insurrection. 
Macaulay  calls  the  execution  of  Elizabeth  Gaunt  "the  friulest  judicial 
murder  which  had  disgraced  even  those  times."  Rurnet's  History  of  the 
Kcii^n  of  Javics  II.  gave  Landor  the  incidents  and  the  characters,  but 
this  meeting  in  prison  is  of  his  own  imagining.  The  scene,  vividly  pic- 
turing the  interaction  of  contrasted  personalities  in  the  shrinking  widow 
and  the  courageous  matron,  is  one  of  the  most  natural  and  lifelike  that 
he  has  written  ;  it  abounds  in  delicate  touches,  and  is  throughout  sus- 
tained at  a  high  level. 

A  daughter  of  Alice  Lisle  was  wife  of  Dr.  Leonard  Hoar,  third 
President  of  Harvard  College,  and  afterward  of  Mr.  Hezekiah  U.sher, 
a  merchant  of  lioston.     See  .Sewall's  Diary,  J.  104  (Nov.  13,  1685). 


NOTES.  251 

69X11.  The  Empress  Catharine  and  Princess  Dashkof  (1829).  Of 
this  scene  Landor  says  :  "  It  is  unnecessary  to  inform  the  generality  of 
readers  that  Catharine  was  not  present  at  the  murder  of  her  husband; 
nor  is  it  easy  to  beHeve  that  Clytemnestra  was  at  the  murder  of  hers. 
Our  business  is  character."  Catharine's  is  presented  with  satiric  force, 
and  an  instinctive  sense  of  temperament.  The  only  recorded  perform- 
ance of  a  scene  of  Landor's  on  any  stage  is  the  recitation  of  Pelcus  and 
Thetis  ])y  Epicurus  and  Ternissa,  toward  the  close  of  their  stroll  with 
Leontion  in  the  garden  of  Epicurus  near  Athens.  Sardou  might  be 
fancied  adapting  for  .Sarah  IJernhardt  the  material  here  furnished  by 
Landor,  and  she  making  a  melodramatic  hit  in  the  part  of  the  fiercely 
arbitrary  and  emotional  empress.  The  scene  is  full  of  suggestion  and 
implication  of  incident,  and  abrupt  transitions  expressive  of  over- 
strained nervous  tension  seeking  relief,  with  complete  mastery  of  lan- 
guage. It  leads  nowhere  in  particular ;  but  that  is  usually  the  case  with 
Landor's  sculj)turesquely  isolated  moments.  Its  companion  piece, 
Peter  the  Great  and  Alexis,  equally  inspired  by  hatred  of  tyrants,  is  less 
subtle  than  this  concentrated  essence  of  feminine  malignity. 

77  XIII.  John  of  Gaunt  and  Joanna  of  Kent  {1829).  Landor's 
note  is  :  "  Joanna,  called  the  Eair  Maid  of  Kent,  was  cousin  of  the 
Black  Prince,  whom  she  married.  John  of  Gaunt  was  suspected  of 
aiming  at  the  crown  in  the  beginning  of  Richard's  minority,  which, 
increasing  the  hatred  of  the  people  against  him  for  favouring  the  sect 
of  Wickliffe,  excited  them  to  demolish  his  hou.se  and  to  demand  his 
impeachment."  In  the  light  of  tliose  facts  thus  clearly  stated,  tliis 
rather  unusually  intricate  Conversation  becomes  less  difficult  to  follow. 
It  is  coupled  by  IMr.  Colvin  with  that  of  Tancredi  and  Constantia,  pub- 
lished seventeen  years  later,  as  typical  of  media.'val  chivalry.  Both  are 
among  the  most  highly  finished,  though  perhaps  not  most  natural,  of 
Landor's  short  episodical  scenes. 

82  XIV.  Tancredi  and  Constantia  (1S46).  The  following  succinct 
statement  of  facts  is  taken  from  \\.  A.  Freeman's  article  on  Sicily  in  the 
Encyclopedia  Britannica.  "  The  brightest  days  of  Sicily  ended  with 
William  the  Good.  His  marriage  with  Joanna,  daughter  of  Henry 
of  Anjou  and  Englniid,  was  childless,  and  William  tried  to  procure 
the  succession  of  his  aunt  Constance  and  her  husband.  King  Henry 
the  Sixth  of  Germany,  son  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  First,  liut 
the  prospect  of  German  riile  was  unpopular,  and  on  William's  death  the 
crown  passed  to  Tancred,  an  illegitimate  grandson  of  King  Roger,  who 
figures  in  F:nglish  histories  in  the  story  of  Richard's  crusade."  The 
capture  and  release  of  Constance  by  Tancred,  after  Henry  had  become 


252  NOTES. 

emperor,  form  an  episode  such  as  Landor  delights  to  treat,  and  treats 
with  freedom  and  spirit. 

Forster  prints  this  curious  extract  from  a  letter  written  to  himself 
years  afterward :  "  While  writing  the  Tancredi  dialogue  1  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  to  prevent  my  prose  running  away  with  me.  Sundry 
verses  I  could  not  keep  down,  nor  could  I  afterwards  break  them  into 
prose.  Here  is  a  specimen,  not  in  the  Conversation  as  it  stands  at 
present,  which  was  written  while  I  fancied  I  was  writing  prose  : 

Can  certain  words  pronounced  by  certain  men 

Perform  an  incantation  which  sluill  hold 

Two  hearts  together  to  the  end  of  time  .' 

If  these  were  wanting,  yet  instead  of  these, 

There  was  my  father's  word,  and  there  was  God's." 

Here   is    a   shorter   specimen,  from    the    Peleus  and  Thetis  dialogue, 
which  seems  to  have  escaped  his  notice  : 

Dotli  not  my  hand  enclasp  that  slender  foot, 
At  wliich  the  waves  of  Ocean  cease  to  l)e 
'I'umultuous  .  .  .  ? 

87  XV.  The  Maid  of  Orleans  and  Agnes  Sorel  (1S46).  The  meet- 
ing is  not  historic.  Though  the  treatment  is  slightly  stiff,  and  the 
change  produced  in  Agnes  by  Jeanne's  appeal  lacks  plausibility,  yet  the 
"Demoiselle  de  Seurelle,  Dame  de  lieaute,"  the  inscription  on  whose 
tomb  in  the  fpiiet  chapel  at  Loches  describes  her  as  "une  douce  et 
simple  colombe  plus  blanche  que  les  cygnes,  plus  vermeille  que  la 
flamme,"  is,  on  the  whole,  well  contrasted  with  "Jrian  the  Maid," 
through  whose  words  runs  a  strain  of  visionary  exaltation.  In  this 
Conversation  occur  —  what  is  rare  in  Landor's  prose  ^ — several  iambic 
lines,  of  which  the  prettiest  is  : 

Life  is  but  sighs  ;  and,  when  they  cease,  't  is  over. 

See  previous  note. 

96  XVI.  Bossuet  and  the  Duchess  de  Fontanges  (1828).  This 
scene  has  variously  affected  different  people-.  Forster,  for  instance, 
grows  solemnly  enthusiastic  over  "  Bossuet,  sent  by  the  king  to  compli- 
ment one  of  his  child-mistresses  on  her  elevation  to  the  rank  of  duchess, 
listening  with  a  half  mournful,  half  smiling  gravity  to  the  giddy,  vain, 
wild,  gentle,  childish,  joyous  girl,  until  at  last  the  very  danger  of  the 
good-hearted  simple  little  creature  moves  him  to  tell  the  truth  to  her, 
and  as  the  courtier  drops  from  him  the  fJod  rises  and  speaks  ";  and  he 
adds,  in  all  seriousness,  that  there  is  "hardly  a  finer  thing  than  this  in 


'      NOTES.  253 

the  whole  of  the  conversations."  Others,  more  light-minded,  single  it 
out  as  Landor's  signal  success  in  what  Emerson  would  have  called  his 
"  gamesome  mood."  Still  other  readers,  though  pleased  by  the  divert- 
ing irony  of  the  dialogue  and  the  distinctness  of  the  speakers,  yet  fancy 
they  detect  a  slight  lapse  in  taste,  with  some  lack  of  lightness  in  the 
touch  ;  so  they  pronounce  Landurian  density  of  style  ill  suited  to  a  vein 
of  pleasantry.  Equally  ironical,  Ijut  less  diverting,  is  the  dialogue  of 
Louis  XIV.  and  his  confessor. 

104  XVII.  Dante  and  Beatrice  (1846).  Miss  Kate  Field  writes  in 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  i860  :  "  Landor  has  conceived  the  existence 
of  a  truly  ardent  affection  between  Dante  and  Beatrice,  and  it  was  my 
good  fortune  to  hear  him  read  this  beautiful  imaginary  conversation. 
To  witness  the  aged  poet  throwing  the  pathos  of  his  voice  into  the 
pathos  of  his  intellect,  his  eyes  flooded  with  tears,  was  a  scene  of 
uncommon  interest.  '  Ah  ! '  said  he,  while  closing  the  book,  '  I  never 
wrote  anything  half  as  good  as  that,  and  I  never  can  read  it  that  the 
tears  do  not  come.' "  It  is  recorded  that  Tennyson  used  likewise  to  be 
affected  to  tears  at  his  own  reading  of  passages  from  his  works  which 
left  his  hearers  unmoved.  This  scene  between  Dante  and  Beatrice, 
fervid  and  tender  as  it  Is,  scarcely  has  power  to  stir  in  a  reader  emotion 
such  as  Miss  Field  describes  in  its  author.  It  has  a  pretty  sequel  in 
the  interview  between  Dante  and  (lemma  Donati  soon  after  the  birth 
of  their  seventh  child,  a  girl  whom  the  mother  names  Beatrice. 

113  XVIII.  Beniowski  and  Aphanasia  (1S2S).  See  Mr.  Crump's 
note  for  facts  concerning  Beniowski,  a  Hungarian  who,  taken  prisoner 
by  the  Russians  and  banished  to  Siberia,  fell  in  love,  though  already 
married,  with  the  daughter  of  tlie  Governor  of  Kamscatka,  his  pupil 
Aphanasia.  This  genuine  little  love  duo,  in  a  major  key,  is  as  distinctive 
and  individual  as  the  utterly  dissimilar  one,  in  a  minor  key,  betw^een 
Dante  and  Beatrice. 

118  XIX.  Leonora  di  Este  and  Father  Panigarola  (1S53).  Mr. 
Crump  furnishes  the  following  translation  from  Serassi's  Vita  di  Toi-- 
qjiato  Tasso:  "In  those  days  the  famous  Father  Panigarola  came  to 
Ferrara,  where  he  had  preached  the  Lent  before  with  much  applause ; 
he  was  high  in  favour  with  the  Duke  and  the  Princesses;  and  to  him 
Tasso  wrote  asking  that  he  would  be  good  enough  to  visit  him.  Then 
Tasso  begged  that  Panigarola  would  kiss  Leonora's  hand  for  him,  if 
she  were  better,  and  tell  her  that  he  grieved  much  for  her  illness,  which 
he  had  not  lamented  in  verse  by  reason  that  to  do  so  was  repugnant  to 
his  nature ;  but  that  if  he  could  serve  her  in  any  other  way  he  was  very 
ready,  especially  if  she  desired  to  hear  any  glad  songs.     I  do  not  know 


254  NOTES. 

if  Panigarola  was  in  time  to  do  this  kindness."  The  companion  piece 
to  this  exquisite  scene,  a  Conversation  between  Tasso  and  his  sister 
Cornelia,  represents  him  across  the  l)order-line  between  feigned  and  real 
insanity,  and  her  humouring  him.  It  is  less  simple  and  less  successful 
than  the  one  here  given,  which  is  plaintive  and  haunting,  truly 
feminine. 

120  X.\.  Admiral  Blake  and  Humphrey  Blake  (1853).  Lander's 
substitution  of  Humphrey  for  IJenjamin,  another  of  Admiral  Blake's 
brothers,  is  immaterial,  since  the  story  on  which  the  Conversation  is 
founded  is  not  true.  See  Mr.  Crump's  note,  and  Professor  Laughton's 
article  on  Blake  in  the  Dictionary  of  A'atiottal  Biography. 

The  conflicting  emotions  of  the  hero  in  a  trying  situation  are  particu- 
larly well  shown.     A  really  dramatic  moment  is  dramatically  treated. 

In  the  Conversation  between  I'enn  and  Peterborough,  first  published 
twenty-four  years  before  this  one,  is  a  fine  tribute  to  Blake. 

124  XXI.  Rhadamistus  and  Zenobia  (1S37).  Abrupt  and  agitated, 
full  of  action,  not  always  fortunate  in  choice  of  words,  occasionally 
stiff  in  turn  of  phrase,  thi.s,  though  not  one  of  the  best  of  Landor's 
short  scenes,  is  sufficiently  rapid  and  vivid  to  have  a  place  near  them. 
Zenobia,  who  lived  in  the  first  century,  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  res- 
cued by  some  shepherds. 

129  XXII.  Epicurus,  Leontion,  and  Ternissa  (1829).  The  parts 
selected,  forming  a  small  fraction  (jf  tlie  whole,  are  jiervaded  by  an 
atmosphere  of  leisurely  dalliance  in  which  Kpicurus,  who  is  Landor 
thinly  veiled,  turns  easily  from  one  topic  to  another  with  his  fair  pupils. 
Ternissa,  an  almost  imaginary  character,  does  much  to  add  grace  and 
lightness  to  the  dialogue,  which  becomes  at  times  pretty  drowsy,  when 
Theophrastus,  for  instance,  is  under  discussion.  It  is  easy  to  see  why 
Landor  was  fond  of  this  discursive  Conversation,  in  which  thoughts  on 
various  subjects  deeply  interesting  to  him  are  strung  on  a  thread  of 
pleasing  talk  in  a  pretty  pla(  e  ;  and  which  is  a  sort  of  idealised  con- 
firmation of  Browning's  remark,  made  some  thirty  years  later,  that, 
"  whatever  he  may  profess,  the  thing  he  really  loves  is  a  pretty  girl  to 
talk  nonsense  with."  The  dialogue  is  a  good  one  to  open  at  random, 
for,  with  little  coherence  and  no  dramatic  development,  it  abounds  in 
choice  bits  of  reflection  and  dainty  play  of  fancy. 

This  Conversation  first  appeared  when  Landor  was  fifty-four.  A 
dialogue  between  Menander  and  Epicurus,  written  when  he  was  past 
eighty,  contains  tender  reminiscences  of  Ternissa.  It  is  worthy  of 
remark  that  much  of  his  late  work,  like  Tennyson's,  has  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  his  best  period. 


NOTES.  255 

138  XXIIl.  Walton,  Cotton,  and  Oldways  (1829).  Forster  is  not 
far  wrong  in  dtscrihing  this  Conversation  as  an  idyl  "fresii  as  a  page  of 
Isaak's  own  writing  ;  a  natural  country  landscape  overrun  with  charm- 
ing thoughts ;  and  with  a  sweet  soberness  in  its  cheerfulness  and  sun- 
shine." It  is  also  an  elaborate  and  skilful  experiment  in  style.  Wal- 
ton's manner  is  not  copied ;  rather  his  temper  and  tone  are  assimilated, 
and  reproduced  with  Landor's  impress.  Oddly  enough,  though  we  may 
miss,  on  comparison,  what  Lowell  calls  "  that  charm  of  inadvertency 
with  which  Walton  knew  how  to  make  his  most  careful  sentences  way- 
lay the  ear,"  we  shall  detect  no  discord  between  this  choicely  good 
strain  of  fancy  and  its  illustrious  predecessor  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. Technically  different  as  is  Landor's  style  from  Walton's,  the 
honest  angler's  refreshing  innocency  is  by  no  means  all  lost  in  the 
transposition  to  another  key. 

Is  it  fantastic  to  please  oneself  with  the  notion  that  in  writing  the 
lines  beginning,  "She  was  so  beautiful"  (p.  150),  which  are  strongly 
reminiscent  of  Donne,  Landor  may  have  had  in  mind  the  youthful 
heroine  of  Donne's  Anatomy,  whose 

"  Pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought 
That  one  might  almost  say,  her  body  thought "  ? 

Oldways,  representing  Landor's  tutor,  Mr.  Langley,  is  a  quaintly 
charming  sketch  of  kindliness  and  pedantry.  'I"he  fiction  of  Margaret 
Hayes  gives  a  pretext  for  the  motive  of  the  Conversation.  Further 
introduction  to  a  scene  the  full  enjoyment  of  which  may  be  had  for  the 
reading  appears  needless. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  find  elsewhere  in  Landor  tril)utes  which  show  the 
sincerity  of  his  regard  for  Walton.  Home  Tooke  is  made  to  speak  of 
the  "perpetually  pleasant  light  .  .  .  reflected  from  every  thought  and 
sentence";  and  Johnson  to  say,  "  Fortunate  is  he  who  in  no  hour  of 
relaxation  or  of  idleness  takes  up  to  annex  or  pamper  it,  a  worse  book 
than  Walton." 

155  XXIV.  William  Penn  and  Lord  Peterborough  (1S29).  This 
extremely  long  and  superbly  written  dialogue  is  one  of  the  most  highly 
esteemed  of  Landor's  rambling  discussions.  "  Peterborough's  freakish 
delight,"  says  Mr.  Crump,  "in  turning  the  conversation  on  to  subjects 
likely  to  provoke  Penn  into  enthusiastic  indignation  is  as  natural  as 
Penn's  piety."  The  aristocrat  at  odds  with  aristocracy,  and  in  sympathy 
with  the  element  of  common  sense  in  the  Quaker  religion,  is  obviously 
Landor  himself  speaking  behind  the  mask  of  Peterborough.   "  Profligate, 


256  NOTES. 

unprincipled,  flighty  as  he  was,"  says  J.  R.  Green,  "  Peterborough  had  a 
genius  for  war."  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Mahon's  War  of  the  Succession 
contains  a  spirited  sketch  of  him.  His  visit  to  Pennsylvania,  though 
mentioned  in  Spence's  Anecdotes,  is  not  fully  authenticated.  Whether 
the  Quaker  character  is  truly  drawn  by  Landor,  let  none  but  a  Phila- 
delpliian  presume  to  say. 

167  XXV.  Epictetus  and  Seneca  (1828).  Sufficiently  characterised 
by  Forster  as  "  very  striking  for  its  contrasts  as  well  in  the  character  as 
in  the  philosophy  of  the  high-bred  man  of  learning  and  the  low-born 
slave,  and  enforcing  admirable  rules  of  sini[)licity  and  naturalness  in 
writing";  and  picked  out  by  Lord  Houghton  for  its  aptness  of  lan- 
guage. Between  Epicurus  and  Epictetus,  it  will  be  remembered,  Landor 
aspired  to  walk  through  life. 

172  XXVI.  Lucullus  and  Caesar  (1829).  Plutarch  describes  the 
sumptuous  villa  of  Lucullus  and  his  mode  of  life  in  it.  This  is  one  of 
the  Conversations  mentioned  by  Lord  Houghton  as  showing  how  much 
at  home  Landor  was  with  the  Romans;  it  is  the  most  entertaining  of 
the  Roman  undramatic  scenes. 

180  XXVII.  The  Apologue  of  Critobulus  (1826).  Among  the 
Roman  pliilosophical  discussions,  that  between  Cicero  and  his  brother 
holds  the  foremost  place.  The  fitness  of  style  and  the  urbanity  have 
been  remarked  on  by  critics.  It  contains  several  eloquent  passages, 
but  it  is  long  and  not  very  lively.  The  allegory  here  given,  which  was 
added  in  the  second  edition  of  the  dialogue,  ranks  scarcely  below  those 
in  the  Pcntameron.  Similar  in  kind  and  quality  is  the  dream  of  Euthy- 
medes,  an  allegory  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Fear,  in  the  dialogue  of  Scipio, 
Polybius,  and  Pannctius. 

183  XXVIII.  The  Pcntameron  (1837).  From  182910  1S35  Landor, 
happy  with  his  family,  his  friends,  his  pets,  and  his  flowers,  lived  near 
Fiesole  at  the  Villa  (iherardesca,  "  master  of  the  very  place,"  he  writes, 
"  tfj  which  the  greatest  genius  of  Italy,  or  the  Continent,  conducted 
these  ladies  who  told  such  pleasant  tales  in  the  warm  weather."  Some- 
thing of  the  spirit  of  the  place  and  of  its  associations  for  Landor  is  con- 
veyed in  his  poems  relating  to  this  period,  and  in  some  of  lioccaccio's 
descriptive  interludes  introducing  the  days  of  the  Decameron.  Here  is 
a  specimen  bit  from  I'ayne's  English  version  of  the  opening  of  Day  the 
Seventh  :  "  Never  yet  had  the  nightingales  and  the  other  lairds  seemed 
to  them  to  sing  so  blithely  as  they  did  that  morning,  what  while,  accom- 
panied by  their  carols,  they  repaired  to  the  Ladies'  Valley,  where  they 
were  received  by  many  more,  which  seemed  to  them  to  make  merry  for 
their  coming.     There,  going  round  about  the  place  and  reviewing  it  all 


NOTES.  257 

anew,  it  appeared  to  them  so  much  fairer  than  on  the  foregoing  day  as 
the  season  of  the  day  was  more  sorted  to  its  goodliness.  Then,  after 
they  had  broken  their  fast  with  good  wine  and  confections,  not  to  be 
behindhand  with  the  birds  in  the  matter  of  song,  they  fell  a-singing 
and  the  valley  with  them,  still  echoing  those  same  songs  which  they  did 
sing,  whereto  all  the  birds,  as  if  they  would  not  be  outdone,  added  new 
and  dulcet  notes." 

Given  Landor's  preference  of  Boccaccio  to  all  other  modern  writers 
except  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  what  wonder  that  in  such  a  spot  he 
conceived  the  idea  of  the  Fetitameron,  or  Interviews  of  Alesser  Giovaimi 
Boccaccio  and  Alesser  Francesco  Petrarca,  when  said  Alesser  Giovanni 
lay  iufirfn  at  /lis  Villetta  hard  by  Ceiialdo  ;  after  zvliich  they  saiv  not 
each  other  on  our  Side  of  J^aradise- — as  the  title  affectionately  runs  !  The 
Fifth  Day's  Interview  —  from  which  excerpts  are  here  made — contains 
a  notable  poem  to  his  son,  written  in  England  after  he  had  left  his 
family  and  his  beloved  Italy  ;  it  concludes  with  the  allegorical  dreams 
of  Boccaccio  and  Petrarch,  on  which  has  been  lavished  encomium  which 
it  is  difficult  to  call  over  enthusiastic.  Any  one  who  cares  at  all  for 
Landor  will  prize  these  closing  strains  of  his  most  charming  composi- 
tion ;  one  who  does  not  feel  their  serene  imaginative  loveliness  may  in 
vain  turn  his  pages  in  search  of  anything  more  delightful. 

A  competent  critic  lays  stress  on  the  superiority  of  these  dreams  to 
De  Quincey's  Ladies  of  Sorrow  and  Daughter  of  Lebaiion.  One  ques- 
tion naturally  suggested  by  that  comparison  —  a  question  which  may 
arise  concerning  much  of  the  most  highly  finished  work  of  any  but  the 
few  supreme  spirits  —  is  whether  in  either  case  the  undisputed  excel- 
lence of  workmanship  diverts  attention  from  the  equally  undisiMited 
beauty  of  thought  ;  whether  conscious  admiration  of  the  process  pre- 
dominates over  spontaneous  delight  in  the  result ;  whether,  in  a  word, 
the  artificer  supersedes  the  artist.  As  between  Landor's  most  delicate 
prose  with  its  cadences  as  perfect  as  Handel's,  and  De  Quincey's  with 
its  harmonies  as  mysterious  as  Chopin's,  any  one's  preference  will  be 
a  matter  largely  of  individual  temperament  until  experimental  psy- 
chology shall  determine  by  what  common  unit  to  measure  emotional 
effects  so  different  in  kind  as  these  two  masters  produce. 

200  XXIX.  Pericles  and  Aspasia  (i<S36).  A  few  letters  can  only 
partially  indicate  some  of  the  qualities  which  together  cause  this  to  be 
generally  regarded  as  its  author's  masterpiece.  To  be  caught  in  its 
"strong  toil  of  grace,"  one  should  read  at  random  a  good  many  pages 
at  a  sitting.  A  reader  with  the  knack  of  skipping  luckily  may  easily 
find  hidden  in  the  letters  the  heart  of  Pericles  and  of  Aspasia.     As  a 


25S  NO  TES. 

whole,  the  book,  though  not  equal  in  sustained  human  interest  to  the 
Pfiitaiiicron,  is  the  richest  in  thought  of  Landor's  works,  and  his  noblest 
in  point  of  English. 

Mrs.  Browning  enthusiastically  calls  Pericles  and  Aspasia  and  the 
rentameron  "  books  for  the  world  and  for  all  time,  whenever  the  world 
and  time  shall  come  to  their  senses  about  them  ;  complete  in  beauty 
of  sentiment  and  subtlety  of  criticism."    Home's  New  Spirit  of  the  Age. 

215  XXX-XXXII.  Hellenics  (1846-47).  At  Lady  Blessington's 
instance,  Lander  translated  into  English  some  of  his  Idyllia  Heroica  ; 
these  translations,  together  with  certain  of  his  English  poems  on  kin- 
dred subjects,  he  entitled  Hellenics.  There  can  be  no  more  fitting 
introduction  to  them  than  the  following  lines  from  Lowell's  Khoeciis,  a 
version  of  the  story  —  a  story  dating  from  the  fifth  century  u.c.  —  on 
which  the  Ilnniadryad  is  founded  : 

"  flear  now  this  fairy  legend  of  old  Greece, 
As  full  of  freedom,  youth,  and  beauty  still 
As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 
Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze.'' 

The  Hamadryad  (p.  215)  and  its  sequel,  Aeon  and  Rhodope  (p.  224), 
were  not  translated  from  the  Latin,  but  were  written  originally  in 
English. 

For  technical  criticism  on  the  "fine  filed  phrase"  of  \.\\ii  Death  oj 
Arteniidora  (p.  22.S),  which  is  like  an  outline  of  Flaxman's,  see  Colvin's 
Lander,  \>\).  193-4.  The  poem  was  first  published  in  Pericles  and 
Aspasia,  in  the  form  here  given;  afterward,  with  several  changes  and 
the  omission  of  the  last  three  lines,  in  Hellenics.  In  the  Hellenics 
version  the  change  of  "Fate's  shears  were  "  (1.  11)  to  "Iris  stood"  is 
clearly  a  gain,  and  the  lopping  off  of  the  last  three  lines  is  not  com- 
monly reckoned  a  loss.  On  the  .second  point,  however,  a  word  may  be 
said,  'i'hougli  the  abbreviated  form,  it  is  true,  more  strictly  encloses 
tlie  picture  within  its  frame,  yet  the  discarded  lines,  appropriately  car- 
rying on  the  main  idea  rather  than  introducing  a  new  one,  give  a  ray  of 
light  in  the  prevailing  gloom;  as  verse,  too,  they  are  among  the  best 
of  the  twenty-two,  and  close  the  poem  naturally  with  a  well  modulated 
cadence  more  agreeable  than  tlie  abrupt  and  rather  harsh  phrase, 
"  't  was  not  hers." 

229  XXXIIL  The  Wrestling  Match  (1798).  From  the  first  book 
of  Gebir ;  reprinted  in  the  second  edition  of  Hellenics.  To  Gebir,  a 
Spanish  prince,  his  shepherd  brother  Tamar  confides  his  love  for  a 
sea-nymph.     For  the  passages  in  Wordsworth  and   ISyron  similar    to 


NOTES.  259 

Landor's    description    of   the    shell,  see    Colviii's    Landor,   pp.    168-9. 
Those  melodious  lines  were  first  composed  in  not  less  melodious  Latin: 

At  niihi  caerule:ie  siiuios;i  foramina  conchae 
Obvolvunt,  lucenique  iiitus  de  sole  biberunt, 
Nam  crevere  locis  ubi  porticus  ipsa  palati 
Et  qua  purpurea  medius  stat  currus  in  unda. 
Tu  quate,  somims  abit :  tu  laevia  tange  latella 
Auribus  attentis,  veteres  reniiniscitur  aedes, 
Oceanusque  suus  quo  nuirmure  murniurat  ilia. 

Aubrey  de  Vere,  writing  of  a  visit  he  made  in  1854  to  Tennyson,  at 
Farringford,  says :  "  Alfred  and  I  had  many  a  breezy  walk  along  the 
Downs  and  as  far  as  the  Needles,  sometimes  with  a  distant  view  of  the 
coast  flushed  by  sunset,  sometimes  with  a  nearer  one  of  the  moon- 
beams '  marbling '  the  wet  sea-sands,  as  the  wave  recoiled,  which  last 
always  reminded  me  of  Landor's  lines : 

'  And  the  long  moonbeam  on  the  hard  wet  sand[s] 
Lay  like  a  jasper  column  half  uprear'd.'  " 

Alfred  Lord  Teunyson,  A   Memoir  by  His  Son,  I.  37S. 

232  XXXIV.  To  lanthe.  A  score  of  pretty  little  pieces  referring 
to  lanthe,  written  and  published  at  various  limes,  have  been  grouped 
by  Mr.  Colvin. 

233  XXXV.  Rose  Aylmer  (1S06).  If  anything  Lander  wrote  may 
be  said  to  approach  popularity,  it  is  this.  A  few  verbal  improvements 
were  made  after  the  first  publication;  the  present  text  dates  from  1831. 
See  Colvin's  Laiidor,  pp.  43-4. 

Lord  Aylmer's  daughter,  a  friend  of  Landor's  at  .Swansea,  lent  him 
Clara  Reeve's  Progress  of  Roiiiancc,  in  which  he  found  the  kernel  of 
Gebir.  ISorn  in  1779,  she  died  of  cholera  in  India  in  1800.  Mr.  Stephen 
Wheeler,  whose  Letters  and  Other  Unpublished  Writings  of  Wnlter 
Savage  Landor  tells  more  about  her  than  is  elsewhere  accessible,  thinks 
the  following  lines  of  Landor's  may  also  refer  to  her : 

My  pictures  blacken  in  their  frames 

As  night  comes  on  ; 
And  youthful  maids  and  wrinkled  dames 

Are  now  all  one. 

Death  of  the  day !  a  sterner  Death 

Did  worse  before ; 
The  fairest  form,  the  sweetest  breath, 

Away  he  bore. 


260  NO  TES. 

234  XXXVr.  AFiesolanIdyl(iS3i).  Lander's  passionate  fondness 
for  flowers,  to  which  his  writings  abundantly  testify,  is  nowhere  more 
pleasingly  phrased  than  in  this  attractive  little  poem.  Some  one  speaks 
of  his  regarding  women  as  a  more  delicate  sort  of  flowers.  Perhaps 
this  piece  of  a  letter  to  Crabb  Robinson,  with  its  unconsciously  pro- 
phetic allusion  to  the  present  culture  of  polychrome  orchids,  lends 
colour  to  that  dainty  fancy :  "  I  like  white  flowers  better  than  any 
others;  they  resemble  fair  women.  Lily,  tuberose,  orange,  and  the 
truly  English  syringa  are  my  heart's  delight.  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
that  they  supplant  the  rose  and  violet  in  my  affections,  for  these  are  our 
first  loves,  before  we  grew  too  fond  of  considering  and  too  fond  of  dis- 
playing our  acquaintance  with  others  of  sounding  titles."  H.  C.  Rob- 
inson's Diary,  IL  518,  Ed.  1869. 

Curiou.sly  interesting  similarities  and  differences  in  detaO  may  be 
discovered  on  comparison  of  this  with  Tennyson's  idyl.  The  Gardener's 
Daughter,  published  eleven  years  later.  The  two  well  show,  respec- 
tively, the  restraint  of  the  classic  manner  and  the  efliorescence  of  the 
romantic,  with  its  emotional  reaction,  in  describing  nature  and  persons. 
Tennyson's  highly  wrouglit  miniature  of  Rose,  "full  and  rich,"  as  he 
said  it  must  be,  is,  if  more  individual,  less  distinct  than  Landor's  intaglio 
of  the  nameless  "  gentle  maid." 

236-7    XX.XVIL    XXXVIII.    Vromihb  Examinatiofi  of  Sha/ces/^eare. 

238  XXXIX.  To  Robert  Browning  (1846).  A  letter  to  Forster  con- 
tains this  concise  and  apt  remark  on  Browning :  "  Vou  were  right  as  to 
Browning.  He  has  done  some  admirable  things.  I  only  wish  he  would 
atticise  a  little.  Pew  of  the  Athenians  had  such  a  quarry  on  their  prop- 
erty, but  they  constructed  l)etter  roads  for  the  conveyance  of  the  mate- 
rial." In  another  letter  to  Forster,  in  1845,  Landor  calls  him  "a  great 
poet,  a  very  great  poet  indeed,  as  the  world  will  have  to  agree  with  us 
in  thinking.  .  .  .  fJod  grant  he  may  live  to  be  much  greater  than  he  is, 
high  as  he  stands  aljove  most  of  the  living  :  /atis  himicris  ct  toto  vertice." 

238  XL.  To  the  Sister  of  Elia  (rS46).  "The  death  of  Charles 
Lamb  has  grieved  me  very  bitterly.  Never  did  I  see  a  human  being 
with  whom  I  was  more  inclined  to  sympathize.  There  is  something 
in  the  recollection  that  you  took  me  with  you  to  see  him  which  affects 
me  greatly  more  than  writing  or  speaking  of  him  could  do  with  any 
other.  When  I  first  heard  of  the  loss  that  all  his  friends,  and  many 
that  never  were  his  friends,  sustained  in  him,  no  thought  took  possession 
of  my  mind  except  the  anguish  of  his  sister.  That  very  night  before  I 
closed  my  eyes  I  composed  this."  Extract  from  a  letter  to  //.  C.  Robin- 
son, enclosiiig  the  poem. 


NOTES.  261 

Contrast  with  Landor's  verses  Wordsworth's  "  monumental  portrait  " 
—  as  Professor  Dowden  calls  it — of  Lamb,  ending  with  the  lines 
referring  to  his  sister's  loneliness  : 

"  'J'lie  sacred  tie 
Is  broken  ;  yet  why  grieve?  for  Time  but  holds 
His  moiety  in  trust,  till  Joy  shall  lead 
To  the  blest  world  where  parting  is  unknown." 

Closely  in  keeping  with  Landor's  feeling,  though  more  religious,  is 
Cardinal  Newman's  on  the  sudden  death,  in  182S,  of  his  own  sister. 
His  poem  on  the  occasion  closes  with  the  stanza  : 

"  Joy  of  sad  hearts,  and  light  of  downcast  eyes! 
Dearest,  thou  art  enshrined 
In  all  thy  fragrance  in  our  memories  ; 
For  we  must  ever  find 

Bare  thought  of  thee 
Freshen  this  weary  life,  while  weary  life  shall  be." 

239  XLI,  XLIL     From  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 

239-41  XLIII-XLVIII.  Neither  Mrs.  Barbauld's  "Life!  I  know 
not  what  thou  art,"  Browning's  Prospice  or  his  Epilogue  to  Asolando, 
Tennyson's  Crossin^^  the  Bar,  nor  .Stevenson's  Requiem  expresses  a 
more  natural  feeling  with  regard  to  meeting  death  than  Landor's 
unstudied  verses. 


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Outlines  of  the  Art  of  Expression.  By  J.  H.  Gilmore,  Professor  of 
Logic,  Rhetoric,  and  English  in  the  University  of  Rochester,  N.Y. 
Cloth.     117  pages.     F'or  introduction,  60  cents. 

The  Rhetoric  Tablet.  P'y  F.  N.  Scott,  Assistant  Professor  of  Rhetoric, 
University  of  Michigan,  and  J.  V.  Denney,  Associate  Professor  of 
Rhetoric,  Ohio  State  University.  No.  i,  white  paper  (ruled).  No.  2, 
tinted  pa|)er  (ruled).    Sixty  siieets  in  each.   For  introduction,  15  cents. 

Public  Speaking  and  Debate.  A  manual  for  advocates  and  agitators. 
By  Gkok(;e  Jacoh  Holyoake.  Cloth.  266  pages.  For  intro- 
duction, $1.00. 


QiNN  &   Company,    Publishers, 

Boston.    New  York.    Chicago.     Atlanta.    Dallas. 


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